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?

It is true. The pen IS mightier than the sword.

My pen dug deeper and sliced harder than any sword every could.