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Ink stains my hands, leaving a constellation of marks across my skin.  These are the hands of a writer ~ at least that’s what I call myself in these moments of separation from the rest of the world.  Here, I am in charge, and I control what is written and expressed.  In these sacred parts of the day I exist for no one but myself and I write simply for the pleasure of writing.  There is something calming about the sound and feel of a pen gliding across paper, as the smell of ink registers in my brain, leaving a trail of words – my words, my heart. 

Writing can be brief or it can take hours.  We can slave over just one word or the words can spill out in a perfect formation.  Writing, whether we know what for or why we do it, leaves us feeling complete – whole.  It is a unifying experience and it is a snapshot of who we are in that moment of that day.  So we have to remember to take the time and write something down everyday, even if it’s the simplest sentence, because the simplest sentence holds the promise of becoming something more.    

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