I have always been a scribble ever since I could remember. I stopped somewhere in between being a kid, a rebelling teen, a wife, a mother and a divorcee. Everything,  from truth to lust, from lust to love, from love to hate is when I start to take scribbling more serious. Fiction and non-fiction. What I'm feeling and what I wish to feel. Through words, I'm trying to understand life in so many different perspectives and angles.
Call me hopeless romantic, but feelings are the most difficult theme for me to write about. It has always been. Until one day I fell. deeply. deeply in love with a perfect stranger. The shortest love story yet the most intense feeling I've ever experienced. I was terrified at first, too scared to expose my own feelings, but my bravery won. I dared myself to write instead of just scribbling and our short love story was the spunk to put my every feelings into word. I let myself streaming down into this river of words, pages after pages of my journal. There's no lies, pages of honesty, sincerity, integrity, candor and  simplicity of a heart and mind. The words never stop itself from filling every new empty pages, even after the love he once had for me fade as if I am just an idea to him, a faded idea, and we're back to strangers. But the love that gave me courage to write remains.
The words never stop, I never stop, ideas never stop because everything in live is truly inspiring.
And then one day, I lost the journal to my clumsiness. That is when I lost the ability to write, as if I lost a part of me. I shall stop and put down my pen because now, me and words, we become stranger.