It wasn’t Cathartic.

It was traumatic.

It was beautiful.

It was a cardboard spaceship I pointed to the moon and only landed because of a strong whirlpool of talented artists who bled and sweat and built with me.

It was the memoir that I wrote. It took everything out of me, every ounce of soul-energy. Every drop of blood and ink went into these pages and I haven’t been able to really write anything since. It has left me in this constant state of gratuitous post-tramautic spinning. So, I’m breaking. Breaking as in, taking a break from writing for a while. I’ve spent the last six months *un-writing* to let the emotions and raw beauty settle into a form of some *thing*. Taking a step back from words to enjoy the paint of life.

Until I sit down again, I will always have the bound book to hug.
Do you have yours?
Breathe._Cover_for_Kindle

It is true. The pen IS mightier than the sword.
My pen dug deeper and sliced harder than any sword every could.

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