One.

Words of a different chapter, but all from the same book.

I contemplated doing this again. Writing down emotions that might as well be bottled up inside. I worried doing this again. Flashbacks of horrid memories haunt me by day only to continue at night.  I questioned myself, on why had I found solace in words, and not in other things. I pondered, wondered, scribbled quotes on empty sheets of paper, only to realize that I should be here.

Welcome.

Call me the raindancer.

Raindancer?

Its funny how I can relate a lot to raindancing. I’ve only seen the real dance once. Done by a friend of mine from Africa. She twirled, dance, chanted, sang on top of her lungs. She told stories, of how her ancestors did it. I could remember how fast her barefooted feet danced on the maroon polka dotted carpet. I could remember how stunned I was, to be so interested in it for years, but only manage to see it at the ending of my 19^th year.  

My name? No, that’s not important. And that’s not why I’m here.

Why are you here anyway?

I am here to tell my story. I am here to tell myself the story about the girl that I’ve lived with forever, that I look at in the mirror every day, and yet I know nothing about her. I am here to tell my formation of words, the pain behind growth, the tears behind the laughter, broken dreams, plastered hearts, but most importantly, the faith above it all.

Hello.