Writing is an old friend whom I did not realize I had missed. Until I ran into her on a street corner after decades. I embraced the rekindling of our magical connection and allowed her to lead me to where I needed to go. She knew me, the real me, before I grew all up, doing what the world asked me to. Today I enjoy the ride she takes me on, sometimes peaceful, sometimes scary, mostly inside my heart. And we together discover routes uncharted, visions unseen, and sounds unheard. I never knew there was so much to see and experience. Or maybe I did but chose not to heed her voice.

Not anymore. I will hold your hand constantly, dear writing. I may mess up again, as I do, old friend. But don’t let me go. Not again.