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I couldn’t think of anything clever to say this week, but I was looking through some old writing and found this little thing I wrote for a creative writing class I took back in ’02. Enjoy. Or don’t. I don’t really care:

Writing, to me, is therapy. Paper is my psychiatrist. It is the one thing that will always listen, demanding nothing in exchange. On paper I can vent; I can philosophize. I can ramble; I can dream. I can travel to far off lands and discover far off people. It is never critical; it is always open to new ideas. Paper is my punching bag. It is the napkin that cleans my spills, covers my wounds, and wipes away my tears. It is my sword; my shield; my army. It is the one place where I completely release myself and show my true colors. To know my writing is to know me.