The end of death begins with a breath.

Hello, and welcome to my first blog post ever (applause)!

I have created this blog to share my ideas, opinions and personal life with all of you curious fellow searchers. I was really stoned when I realized that we are enclosed in our internal realities and can only communicate our inner reality by means of symbols like words and art.  From a young age, writing was the medium that stuck itself onto me.

When I was six years old, I painted the words W.E. on my bedroom door with my dad’s white out like a graffiti artist would  (my first act of defiance as a writer). I defined myself as a five year old and also as a writer and even turned my closet into a writer’s room to have editorial meetings with the teddy bears.  But as  I got older I felt less inspired and went from considering myself in 9th grade as a blocked writer to a low in college when I felt that I was not a writer and was not capable of being one.   I was blocked and experienced all the symptoms:  the longing,  the lack of inspiration to inspiration binges and feeling guilty for not having them more than once every few months, and the bully voices that beat me up when I did try to write.  How  to make  writing  like a river  that flows: Now that is a  challenge.

I realize now that I am one of those  crazy people who needs to write.    It is a need,  like  the need to laugh and  cry and speak, it’s a need like  smoking a parliament cigarette after  I’ve drank 3 beers at a bar (which I rarely do).  But I quit smoking.   That’s what writing is like for me.  A pain in the ass.  Something that hurts to not have.

So bare with me and thanks for reading!

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