When I was around eight years old,I wrote a poem at School,I clearly remember my then Teacher Mrs Newman,gushing about it to my Mother,seemingly she found it profound and moving for a child of my age.I am afraid I remember little of my minor achievement,other than it involved the sea.I remember vividly as a child,being an obsessive reader,I was shy and introverted,reading was an escapism,it still is,But I do wonder,if this early triumph,had it been noted and encouraged later on in my school years,could have set me on a different path?

For,you see,writing is a need in me,a very primal ,basic need.I write every day,thoughts,dreams,prayers,memories.From little scribbles on the back of a supermarket receipt,to full page journal entries.I read feverishly and quickly,all the time,books,poems,quotes,blogs,pages.My hunger never stops.I write,whether on paper by way of journaling,blogging or even spilling my guts on facebook occasionally! I have to do it,I have to have a voice in some way,although admittedly I have been criticized for giving too much of myself away .This is who I am.Often in daily life I fall silent,the days are busy and unforgiving,the nights long and restless,no time or space for beautiful words,I fall asleep with the last chapter of a book slipping slowly into my subconscious mind.

Tomorrow will come as a blank page,I will find more words,I will scribble them down and carry them in my purse until I recognise their relevance.Serendipity.Every word is sent for a reason.

It is time for a new chapter……