I was the girl with wild black hair and light green eyes with the beautiful ideas of life. The wind never blew, the leaves called and beckoned to each other. Branches never hung to the ground, they were REACHING, reaching to catch the crumbled leaves scattered like brown sugar on the soft green grass.
I was the girl with muddy hands and her hair in her mouth, building a house with mud bricks or stirring an old bucket full of water and dirt and leaves. I was the girl blowing dandelion dust into the air and drawing maps brimming with promises of secret treasures and making wishes on all the stars. I was the princess of my world, tromping through the woods and wading waist-deep in lakes, fishing for tadpoles.
I am still that girl, though I tromp through different forests now, those of people and politics. Now I wish for jobs and relationships instead of stone castles and talking trees. My maps have changed to schedules, balancing the things I want to do with the things I need to do. My mud houses have turned to savings and grades and books. But I have kept my sense of adventure. I have caught my wishes and tadpoles in my pen, and I set them free every time I sit down to write.
I write because I can't stop writing, because that girl with wild hair is always asking, asking about the beautiful things in this world. And I know that without taking time everyday to notice, I might forget that the world is alive, or that I am.
I am the girl with straightened hair and painted eyes with evolving ideas of life. But I have not forgotten who I was before. When I look outside, I see the sun smiling and the leaves playing at kissing each other. The grass is whispering to the sky and the wind is caressing the earth. Sometimes I forget, and the sun and the leaves and the grass are just fire and vegetation. But when I sit down to write, the world comes to life again.
That is who I am. And that is why I write.