I forget about writing, I forget that it has always taken my emotions and thoughts and ideas and put then into some sort of sense… even if I am the only one who gets it.
So I am sitting on a bed from my youth, with sheets I picked out at 15 and writing in the house I grew up in.
And I am learning once again (this seems to be the lesson I
learn every year) that he has my hand, he will lead the way down the path into my big unknown.
And I just need to hold tight and follow him.