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.