Writer

My pen hit the paper and it glides across as if it were Michelle Kwan on the ice. I squeeze the pen harder and am so excited to get the words down that I think I'm skipping entire sentences. I don't remember the last time I made sense, but the excitement is building too much in me that I don't have time to reread. It doesn't matter though, because to me this ink splattered page makes sense. These are my emotion coming from places deep within. I like how it feels after I take it all out on a small, red, leather bound book. It's as if I just vented to friend for an hour, a very small friend, who can't talk back. My hand cramps up, my fingers ache like they were punching something. I travel to new worlds, and I like, with everything that's lived in my brain since I was five. There's everything here from romance and rebellion, to countries whose names I've only read on maps in the back of History class. This is my world, my place to vent, this is where I go when I just want to escape. My wrist aches as I let go of the pen, and my fingers feel as if they were growing callouses like I was climbing up a mountain or something. I hear two large cracks from my hands as I push them together, and I smile. I feel refreshed, content, and renewed as I look down. I don't read, just close the little book and put my own little universe back in it's home, hidden away from the rest of the world, the real world.