One Gift


Another Morgan piece. Well done Morgan. Not rare.

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Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I dreamed of writing. Writing for whoever might hear, whoever might care, or, for myself and the sheer enjoyment, nay, the absolute bliss of filling a page with words spilling from my mind like a torrent. (a torrent of what, we shall not debate!) Words have always been there, at the forefront of my every thought, waking or sleeping, dreaming or working. How many times I’ve been caught narrating what I’m doing by a quizzical onlooker I dare not admit (usually a family member, thank goodness, but not always). It’s rather like an obsession I cannot escape or break free of, and like an obsession, I do not care to break free, really.

I distinctly remember sitting in my fifth grade classroom, creating stories in my mind and scribbling them down for all I was worth rather than going out for…

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