Writer in the United States
My soul was made of a gale. It feeds a flame of restlessness that renders it impossible for me to remain still for more than a few months. But fate is not altogether cruel for in recognizing my deformity, it bestowed me with wings that have taken me to marvelous heights. Occasionally I roost but before comfort sinks its tendrils into my heart, I become agitated, stand up, stretch, yawn, and spread my wings to take off once again, to the great dismay of my mother.
It is no more than the melodious voice of my heart that guides me and of late its gentle susurrus bids me south. I have no more than the instrument to which I am bound, enough paper and ink to make manifest a few ideas, and absolute love and faith in God. I have not been around so long but what I have seen and read until now has assured me that a man needs no more.
I have lost journals in the past and the only safeguard against the longing and remorse that result from such losses seems to be a digital record of what I write. I am a writer of fiction but my journal entries contain no more than the significant experiences I encounter. I hope that what I learn and see is conveyed to all who read the entries. I apologize in advance if they are found to be insipid or offensive.