It dawned on me. After finally making the decision to do away with the “junk” that had been piled up for years and do some decluttering. I found myself sitting in my basement finding notebooks of unfinished stories interrupted by my tedious journey to success. I stumbled upon all the stories I had written and felt like “telling” to maybe a possible reader. I’d create characters for my stories that lived lives through my perspectives of the world. I’d create poems that emulated current events and timeless moments. Writing has always been my thing. I’d write when I’m happy, when my creative juices would begin flowing and when I’d be down right depressed. My emotions always led me to my paper and pen. Writing has always been therapeutic for me. It’s just something about letting my thoughts get transferred to written words. I don’t write to seek an audience. In fact, if you’ve come across this post, it was written for the sole purpose to celebrate my love for writing. I’ve always thought that writing was a gift because so few people can appreciate reading a story or poem and receiving a message from it or seeking the moral. I know this for a fact because being an English teacher has shown me that one can not simply become a writer or appreciate writing by force. Words can’t be put on paper if ideas haven’t been born. We all have powerful thoughts stored in our precious craniums. We just have to learn how to get those thoughts on paper.