I am one of those people who is prone to scribbling on stray bits of paper and stashing them into pockets- where subsequently, they fall out when I pull out my keys, or end up in the wash, or quite often disappear in ways entirely unknown to me. I am a scribbler and a jotter, a note-taker and a note-maker, a writer of journals and other collections of random thoughts. I'm not sure where these tendencies began, indeed, it rather seems that they have always been a part of me, as much as an arm or a leg, as my eyes or my ears. For really, all of these notes, and all of these collections of thoughts, are as much sensory to me as any of the other more commonly recognized senses are. Writing is how I process my life and make sense of it, it is how I become cognizant of what has happened to me and around me, it's the primary lens through which I see things, through which I interpret, and become. It is a process of waking, of coming into awareness, and each morning after I wake, I find myself before my pages, my coffee in hand, scribbling away- weaving and spinning my world. It's an odd dependency to crave such a thing, to need it to feel at peace through the rest of day, as if somehow, just by writing it down, putting it in black ink on a smooth, white page, we can make it so. Perhaps Anaïs Nin put the best the sensation best when she wrote, "I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live." The Diary of Anaïs Nin Volume 5: 1947-1955. And so, I write- more because I must, because I cannot help but do otherwise, because it is who I am- jotter and scribble, note-maker, and note-taker.

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