I am not a writer. I am a child who dreamt. I am a reader who grew up dreaming. I am an explorer and I love always learning. Seeing, experiencing, tasting, hearing the new.
I see a door not meant to go through or a wall in my path…I step over and around and listen to silent sound.
I began writing because I had trouble sleeping and a troubled home-life. I began dreaming myself to sleep…once the light was out and the book put down the story continued in my own head and now onto page words flow. But my imagination isn’t enough to feed my soul. I walk for miles and open my eye’s to sight and sound. I find love in destruction crumbing to the ground. The lost life a footstep once held. I see the sun glint off a broken piece of glass and the story in my heart sounds. I see the message spray painted on the wall and think “I needed just that today” I walk until I am sweaty and red with the sun and my feet are tired but my mind is filled with story found. And often….often the story is held in the breath of silent sound.