Write. To live. To breath.

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Stories- in whatever shape they might come they make up who we are. As a first child in 40 years, I grew up with all sorts of stories, told to me by everyone, from my great-grand parents, to neighbors, about history, national and family, and magical stories of princes’ going to advanture, and saving princesses. They all stayed me…especially the stories of my grand father flying in the airforce, of my mother growing my with two brothers who were deaf, other stories that adults often that I was not listening to. Most importantly there were stories of me- of how my twin died, how they had to dip me in a water tub numrous times in a day because most times they were not sure if I was still alive- and with in them was packed their love and hopes of having a girl in the family. So much so that by the I was school going, I was my own hero, closest thing to a living legend.

I don’t remember when I started writing…but I started my frist poem about a little fairy who is looking for her mother. and My first drawing of a joker, that was anything but a joker.

But I write because its me, its what I do. Writing is my visa- to live. To breath to be alive. and painting- its the means to bring joy back. To fill in the pace between words and images in my head- to gratify the feelings where words fail, but I need to keep on telling stories. because they are my passport to not give up. Ever.

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