truth.

today i am in love with California.  i am in love with sleeping with the windows open. i am in love with taking walks under the early morning sun, and i am falling in love with writing again.  the difficulty in writing for me is that the desire to do so doesn't always last for a long time, or doesn't come or stay with any sort of fervency. but today it exists and it's taking me to beautiful places in my soul and in this world.


what i finally figured out: there is no cosmic importance in whether i write or not. there is no great matter in me ever being a published writer. i write simply to uncover me, discover the world in a new and different way, and to communicate things i could never communicate orally to any person in particular.


writing is therapeutic.  writing is wondrous.  i am a writer. i want to be comfortable enough in my own skin, to say that last statement, to write it, without cringing.  who is comfortable enough in their own skin to admit that they are what they want to be...what they dream to be...who they truly are.  why is it so hard?  why does it seem to be such a treacherous battle with ones own self to finally find some semblance of comfort in their own skin.


the beginning of becoming a true writer, the beginning of becoming my true self, to finding comfort in my own skin, is to tell the truth.  where is truth? what is truth?


i'm a writer.
i'm a writer.
i'm a writer.