I am a journal writer. Have been so all my life, ever since I learned to write at the age of five.
This week I have been given some time to step aside, in solitude. With me I have my black moleskin, a set of felt pens, a few pencils, a paintbox. I am reading old entries. I am writing new ones.
A blue background, a chessboard, a rose growing.......... or fading........ letters are gathered into words, words into sentences, into tales......... Tales? No, to me they look more like life lived and loved.