I don’t remember falling in love with words. It just happened.
Writing has always been my coping mechanism, starting with journals when I was eight years old. Maybe it’s my OCD tenancies and I like to see something solid on paper to make sense of it. Maybe I’m better at writing my thoughts than I am at voicing them. Maybe I’ve never tried anything else – but then again, I’ve never needed to.
Writing may not always make the most sense to others, or be the most reasonable solution, but words comfort me. They come easily when I am alone with a computer, whereas they don’t when I have to form them with my mouth.
It could have something to do with having the time to think out what I want to express, rather than embracing my lovely talent for word-vomiting. Maybe I like people to know where I come from,the reasoning…
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