Sifting through journals, uncovering memories, hopes, lists of ideas that just might form a ladder to carry me from the muck I felt mired within... I find poems, songs, snippets of beauty and moments of experience stored in rhythm and rhyme. Pieces of time in shapes that tell tales of myth mixed with the mundane. When I don't write stories... I am songwriter.
How many roles do we keep hidden from ourselves? Things we do that we forget, deny, disbelieve?
What shall come of this?
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