Writing has always been an aide to me. It has kept me away from the sanitarium. It became the piece of tornado whirling inside my head, fighting to get loose; the tornado that I placed onto a piece of paper for some reconciliation and peace within my mind. Writing has helped me ease the pain of betrayal, has helped me pass through exams with flawless A's, has helped me understand meanings behind abstract pictures painted onto papers. Writing is my sanctuary. Yet it also inhibits me.
I am an emotional writer. An ironic inconvenience for the time being.