Sometimes I flick through my old notebooks and find pieces of writing I had entirely forgotten about. When I read them I feel an immense sense of pride in my habit of writing everything down. Although I am no longer the same person who wrote the note, it reminds me of feelings I’ve had, and I’m happy to remember them no matter if they represent a time that was sad. Above all it reminds me of the beauty and art behind words. When I’m enamoured with music and paintings and textures and performances, and I look at those things as being such wonderful art, sometimes I am a little shy of my own expression. Words seem to hang in a strange space where they can be considered art or they can be considered mere practical. As though words place in art are just wonky glass figurines against monasteries. Small notes from the past remind me that words are a journey like all other art. Although I may still be envious of people who can dabble in those other fields, I am proud that I can at least create words. My voice seems louder on a page. This blog has always served as a personal journal to capture any feelings or experiences I have. Not everything I write gets published here, but in sharing what I do, I hope others find some comfort.