Once I was ruminating, deepening my emotions, regretfully imagining life outside myself; I was an introvert without words. The time I spent ruminating was rarely commended by my silent moments alone: only I knew how I felt. Obviously, oblivion weighed on my mind then. Psychology and dynamics, which normally are deeply impressed upon my senses, desperately reaching for the root, (of the cause). These were mere thoughts, I accept now.

The freedom from within is the strength I am and desire I share. Tracing the lines and details of words, elaborating upon those ideas, and feeling my fingers forming the lines; Rarely, are my feelings lost when I am writing.

I am aware of my thoughts and the evolution of things inside my
introspection. I now see the evolution of my understanding of things by
writing. I am seeking clarity, form expressed accurately. I return refreshed,
so alive. I find myself lurching from my chair in excitement when I
recognize what I discover: writing is power.

Pressing myself back down, I begin fishing the well, teasing my thoughts out. Forming the thin lines into fruition. Today, writing, I am facing escape. Writing is now, both my sanctuary and discipline; I am choosing to give my imagination the black and white world her fingers trace. I now focus my mind to the inside; into the cavity of my skull. I search for the action my brain is sending to my fingers and I am pleasantly surprised by what I comprehend by doing so. I am seeking connection within and instantly I am sitting here, writing. My thoughts flow more clearly as I forget my body. I think first. Clarity that is denied by the shell of my senses, a great distance from my imagination, stops my flow. I question how interesting imagination is to convey to one.