“She could not make sense of the things that were meant to her, but she was drawn to it all, and when she was alone, she felt like the moon, terrified of the sky, but completely in love with the way it held the stars.”

How ironic that I shy away from disclosing my secrets to those around me, but bare my private musings on display here for the consumption of complete strangers. Here I place my raw, unpolished works, writings unfit for the (more) public eye but part of me nonetheless.

Writer, Wonderer, Wanderer. 17. I dream on clouds of powdered silver, chase shards of gleaming sun.