I had had all too much for one girl.

I’d been displaced. I’d seen my mother lying sick on a hospital bed. I’d tried to learn where everything in my aunt’s house belonged, but it was slow in the coming, and I wasn’t very helpful.

I’d tried to reach out to people. Failed miserably.

I tried to sing, for that usually calms me down. I wrap myself in the notes, the lyrics, the dynamics, and it forms a protective bubble around me. No one can enter unless I allow it.

There was no song. No notes. My voice had left me.

But I had still so much to say! I just…couldn’t.

So a purple pen did it for me. I carried around my journal for a good portion of those days. I always, ALWAYS knew where it was, and that was within reach.

Writing is one of my best escapes. Whether in my journal or a story, taking words from deep within and handing them off to a page serves as a ventilation for emotion, and a safe place.

With a pen or pencil in my hand, and blank paper in my lap, I can be anywhere.

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