I have just recently realized that writing makes me happy. I recall the days putting down on paper (if electronic) the book, how blissful was my existence. I considered it my reward for a job well done, there in my visions (which inspired the writing in the first place). But even now, as I put down these words, I enter a sort of trance state, and I forget all else but the stream of structured thought which comes down as words, sprinkled into shape. When I graduated college I had thought I would be a writer, despite my computer science degree, but the meds I was on prevented me from writing (or reading!) for more than a half an hour at a time. I’d get antsy. And now, if by chance I might get off my meds, I must discover what I could put this talent towards. I am a child of destiny, and I try to follow the lines of what is meant to be; perhaps something will come up. Cheers!
