who is she?

writing is such a solitary exercise, but it has an ability to exercise a certain exploratory element alongside of it ... it is my world. it is where i make sense of anything in my life. words, are just like our lives, unbalanced

the person who sits here, writing this, isn't the person who goes to the gym, isn't the person who goes out running, isn't the person who creates pretty images, nor the person who talks to you. she isnt a mother or a friend, nor even an acquaintance.

just a blot in anyone elses world.

belonging nowhere, yet, ubiquitous

she is a motherless daughter, looking to make sense of a universe, that has none to offer.
and the escapism comes, only through words, or through the solitary, temporary ecape of, running. an alone'ness. a solitude. a peaceitude. like no other.

the person who writes here... who is she?

she is, the real me.