A Childhood


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I love to write and I will not stop. It was born into me, I'm sure, for before I can even remember conceptualising the idea I was certain that reading and writing were the utmost form of sophistication one should aim for. Words and rhythm turned over in my mind more than I would have wished for, often without structure, almost always without sense. But sense has never stopped a determined child, a child with her head in the clouds and her feet in mud puddles. Once I had turned twelve I knew I wanted to keep experiencing the emotions brought on by the reading of a simple chapter, not the uncomfortable feelings brought on by living the banality of everyday. Life often became boring and routine as a twelve year old in regional Australia. Certainly, it was cosy and warm and filled with love but when I read those stories, oh, only then did I really know what compassion was, but without being taught in such concrete terms. Some people are born performers, some born scientists, some are born to lead, others to love and some are born to be all of those and more. I am only bits of each, I think, but wrapped in a burrito of words. For nothing exists until it is shared, nothing moves until it is set free for others to understand. And this is something I have only learnt through the telling of a story. 
For this reason I choose to keep writing, still after I'm scoffed at by unsatisfied souls, still after I'm urged to believe that dreams are for dreamers and not for the determined, that infant-hearts should be kept in childhood and smothered and mutated until there are only taxes and politics and mortgages to funnel our precious human energy into. I choose to write because I love the twelve year old inside of me, and I hope she loves the elderly women with the curious eyes that she will come to be. 

These stories are for that twelve year old girl. 

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