When I was younger, and dealing with the maudlin life of the typical American teenage female, coping with societal angst, and hormonal flare ups, I lived a cloistered existence.
I wore my disgruntled youth like a warm, comfortable bathrobe. My lagging self-confidence swirled around me like quicksand. I was a lonely, confused teenager looking for acceptance wherever I could find it. But fearing the onslaught of my classmates taunts, I tired of not fitting in.
I turned to writing to ease my solitary existence, releasing a pained soul with each strike of the pen across pristine white paper. And release the pain it did. Looking back, I can say that I have been blessed with a natural ability to free my imagination and to create beautiful prose.
I no longer felt the need to rid the world of my miserable existence. I had gotten my second chance. Back then I could scribble away my angst in red ink, pine away in blue ink, and release hateful thoughts in black.
Now with each tap of the keyboard, I can continue to create new worlds, new adventures, new characters, and even new words(thank you, Dr. Seuss). Back then I knew I had discovered a new reason for living(as immature as that sounds to me now), and opened up an outlet to unload my frustrations.
Now I believe that I can better understand the true depth of the human condition; love and hate, anger and complacency, life and death. I no longer fear the common stranger as I once did those many decades ago. I could view them not as potential enemies but as weary, fellow travellers along life’s myriad of quirks and temporal heartaches, and joyous celebrations. Thankful that not only have I given strangers a second chance at getting to know the real me, but myself as well.