These days I can commonly be found snapping some documentation of what I find beautiful in my world.  However, some of my most beautiful experiences were never captured in digital format – or even on film.  Some of these are moments that seem so fantastic to me that I cannot confirm not deny that they happened.  This is because, for lack of having burned them to permanent immortality, they only exist as some mixture of reality and the romance I held for soaking in every light, love, and sound that I could find.

Lately I feel highly compelled to draw them as they exist in my memory, before I become so old that they fade – like the once colorful prints from the days when film was the only medium of image capture.  All the travels are trapped inside these internal landscapes that paint themselves in my dreams, creating mosaics of places and experiences.  It is a sketch of the only thing that I believed I could fully succeed and ‘achieve’ at: freedom.  Maybe that is what I can call them: “Sketches of Freedom”.

I’m not sure of my voice anymore.  This is the first post of a continuation that signifies the change in voice that is unavoidable as perspectives shift along with the sands of time.  Already so many micro perspectives have siphoned the writings of old.  Now, along with the desire to capture history in handwritten picture, I feel like this voice has a certain degree of immortality to it… as if this voice can weather future iterations of self.  Perhaps because the previous voice was mostly of deconstruction and this one is of construction.  But who knows?

What I know is that I have used writing to find my way thus far and that will continue.  For now, I see a period of retrospection coming.  Some type of chronicle of the life of a young woman dubbed ‘wild child’ who made the choice to live free.