As a teenager,
writing was what made the days go by. Whenever I touched pen to page it was as if the pain, and anger, and hurt just dripped out of my with every word. No matter what was happening, no matter where I was, or how I felt; if I had a pen and pad I could get through anything..

But somewhere along the way,
around the time that life gets busy, rent and bills become due, steady work gets hard to find, and journals and pens are in a box somewhere forgotten.

Even at 24, time CAN slip past without being noticed. After a few short years, a series of wrong turns, and enough loss...