For the first time in a long time I feel like writing. Not writing a paper for class or work but actually writing. Recently I reflected on all of the artistic people that I’m friends with. My friends are graphic designers, musicians, photographers and artists. People who make art. People who create, design and see the world in beautiful ways. I am intensely proud of all of them for that but I wondered where I fit into this whole spectrum. Where my little anthropological quasi accounting clerk self could possibly fit among all of these special people. Then I remembered, or more specifically I thought of this little half-hearted attempt at a blog and I remembered. I’m a writer. I write. If there is one thing that I can do in this world it is put pen on paper and find words to string together into sentences,  line them into rows and make paragraphs appear on the page. I may be rusty. My metaphors may be shaky, my vocabulary and my grammar anorexic, but I am a writer. I am going to write. You don’t have to read this but I need to write this. I need to understand who I am. I’m not there yet but at least I’ve remembered that dream-like moment in my past when I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could write.


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