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There's something refreshing to me about taking a blank, unlined piece of paper, and writing big, scrawling thoughts all over it. And even further, I feel an accomplishment of some sort as the ideas fly and so do the pages until I'm left with a scattered stack of an organized chaos of thoughts, dreams, stories and words--words unencumbered--my contents poured out in fluid language on paper. Pictures that I've painted for me, and can choose to keep secret, or choose to turn around and share with those who will read; those who will listen; those who will sift through the scrawls to find a girl buried in a world where imagination too often overlaps reality. Those who will find me.