This has become my canvas of a medium I ascribe no skill to, only a fondess and aspiration for. An artist by no means, but a student only therein. A student who finds her passion growing daily for and not afraid to confess it so.


I continue scribe here in this cyberspace - often finding myself transporting these very words to my journal. The keyboard my pen. This screen my paper. Though there is something remarkably beautiful about physically writing on paper - holding a pen delicately within grasp, caressing the texture of paper it crosses... there is also something to clicking out words almost as fast as they come to mind that seems easier.

I dare to confess that this cyberspace attempt has become a lone journal. I often find myself perusing the sight, but with lack of inspiration or motivation to leave any typed words. Today I read a secret that said "I stopped painting the day you stopped loving me." underneath it an anonymous writer left: "Paint your heartache." Good words anonymous one. "Paint your heartache."

Though I find I am no painter at all, nor come close to even ascribing to be one. I find similarity between the thoughts regarding writing. Writing is something that's precious to me and I find it so delicately connected to my heart. More often then not it is the connection between my spirit and my pen, when one fails to maintain it's part so does the other. When my spirit is dry my pen needs refilling as well.

I confess the writing does not always cease as a result of my spirit, rather some times the simplicity of the busyness of life itself. Though these days my heart and spirit lay sombre and heavy... I need to refill my pen to find motivation to refill the rest.
This was good, ye not by any scholarship standards, but from a mere perspective of processing. Often where people lack I find no lack of paper to listen to my hearts ramblings and musings.