These words are not for you. I have none yet to give. I want to write freely, to effortlessly mold mastered sentences, to foster a tree that branches into an existence beyond me and my time here.

But these words are just practice. They are for me, because I need to purge them. Like a baby’s first babbles, they don’t mean anything in particular.  If you so choose, you can sit back and listen as they mature. If you’re the type of person that enjoys waiting for closed buds to gently burst into bloom, feel free to observe.

Bildungsromans are never built in a day, but every foundation begins somewhere. I am starting with what I have now, which isn’t much more than a handful of mustard seeds. I hope that one night, if I keep trying, I will have something real to tell you.

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