I live to write. To put pen to paper and make the words come alive. To make you feel my stories with such intensity they make you weep, hope, hate, love, feel. Everything. If I die right now, thats okay. To die with my pen painting a vivid story would be the only way to go. It has not been easy these last few weeks. The pain in the left side of my body has been intense. There’s weakness, aches, creaking and cracking. The nerves in my back and arm are inflamed and pinched. It angers me to be weak. This girl wants to write, run, and swing a hammer. I can’t do anything because my body is rebelling. I’m angry because I feel old. I don’t want to be old. I fear it. The slowing down. The wrinkling. The withering of the mind and body. I do not want it!!! And yet I know it is inevitable. I always thought I’d live fast and die young. Turns out I’m a middle aged writer wannabe. But then I guess it’s always better than the alternative. Death.