A few months ago I cracked open some journals that had been traveling with me for almost 30 years.
They’ve survived my roaring 20’s, my broken 30’s, my healing 40’s. They have stories to tell.
But the biggest story they all told is one that helped me remember something locked inside of me.
I was reminded that I have always been a writer and a poet.
Life stacked in on top of them, decade by decade. I forgot who I was underneath all of it.
I didn’t come to writing by accident.
Knowing this clicked something open in me.
It’s as if young me whispered in my ear and said: stop f@cking around, ponte las pinche pilas, y comparte todo.
What can I say… little me’s inside voice is aggressive.
My pen and laptop have been on fire ever since.
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