I confess. I am a writer.

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I confess. I am a writer.I confess. I am a writer.

I want to write. Writing and drawing calm me down. They are my zen, my meditation. Thing is, they take time. And require special circumstances and supplies (paper, pen, pencil, keyboard, internet connectivity…). So much so, that I have not managed to properly write in a few months, and it makes me sad.

The one thing I have done the longest is, in fact, writing. I used to write before I knew what shapes letters took. My dad occasionally still smiles at a few “notes” of mine in his old diaries. (I seldom wrote on blank paper, I wanted to annotate others’ notes, it seems).

Writing is something I absolutely need to do. This is how I have come to realise that I am, in fact, a writer.

Now I’m back at work, and I can only write here, on Medium.11656975

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