Whenever I Hold a Pencil (May 24, 2019)

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Whenever I hold a pencil I am lost. I am swept away by an alternative reality. One filled with pain, with sorrow, with brokeness. One filled with overwhelming joy, with gratitude, with love. I am free. I have the ability to write the truth. To rewrite my past; to rewrite my pain. I can be anything and do anything. No one can tell me who to be or what to do. I am completely myself, and to a pencil and paper, that is enough – I am perfect. I am not limited. No one has control except me. I am the master. I am the artist. I am the writer. I can be a princess or a singer or a butterfly. The possibilities are endless as long as there is led in my pencil and a story in my heart. When I hold a pencil I am completely and utterly free. There is no pressure to perform – no pressure to be perfect. No pressure to conform to the ideal image of society. With a pencil I can be broken. I can be hurting. I can be wild and crazy and nobody can look at me differently. I do not have to prove my worth to a lifeless piece of paper. It has lived its life and it sits waiting to hear my story: raw, beautiful, and original – the real me.

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