breathing life into the storyteller.

no editing.
bathroom lighting.
just me.
I’m finding myself again
that life?
just a series of ‘finding oneself’
the result of change and circumstances.
constantly changing.
I was a climber, I say to myself.
I was a painter.
I was a creator.
I was. I was. I am.
I’m trying to change my language.
I’m trying to understand and accept
this constant ebb and flow.
honor it.
honor myself and my body and my being.
I was a writer.
a storyteller.
a constant in my life to define me.
I haven’t written in years.
Infertility, pregnancy, postpartum
all this time has stolen my creativity.
sucked it out from my body.
I sit, here, trying to grasp it
as two humans grasp and feed from my body.
so, as I transformed into my 29th year
I’m grasping hold of myself
of my being.
I’m a writer.
I’m a creator.
I’m a storyteller.
I decided to join the 5am writers club
taking two hours each morning for me.
to feed me.
to feed my gifts that my ancestors left me.
my mother had me at 16. while she was pregnant she met a fortune teller. they told her that she would have a daughter who would write the most intriguing stories that would be read all over the world.
my mother is dead.
I am not.

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