Quiet please, I'm thinking.
Far too curious for my own good, if it says ‘Wet Paint’ I will have to touch it to be sure. Described by neighbors while still very young as having ‘the face of a boy who has just gotten out of trouble, or is just about to get into it’ I feel this fairly accurately sums me up. Except that I am no longer a boy, at least not in the eyes of the Law.
My mother once despaired that I would talk to anyone, another trait I have failed to outgrow. Truth being stranger than fiction it is the realities of this world that really appeal to me; who did what to whom and for what reasons, and if someone who was there can tell me what they saw I will be forever grateful. I have no idea why, it just tickles me.
For as long as I can remember I have scratched words onto paper, and when not writing my own I was reading someone else’s. Death is the one truth in this world and if anything I have heard, seen, written or shared can entertain, amuse or inspire then I will have achieved something. And if not I will have at least tried.
Chart your own course and don’t be afraid to fail. It all amounts to nothing anyhow.