She didn't know if she made sand castles growing up but she did make a few things. Like a paper plane, a paper cigarette with powder stuffed into it and a few odd doodles.
When she was somewhere between her childhood and preteen years. She took an interest in drawing. She watched others draw and in time surpassed them. Everyone at school knew she could draw -draw not just draw, I mean anyone can draw. Then drawing became something mundane and she moved on to something more aesthetic.
She started trying her hand at writing. She'd write loads of things, quotes, short stories. Anything and everything. Her mind buzzed with a thousand ideas, her thoughts a world of their own and the world around her started to shrink in comparison to the world up in her head.
She kept a black book where she wrote her thoughts. Every word that she wrote made sense . There was always a depth behind them. The way she wove her words reflected how she thought. She thought like she wrote, making paragraphs and speaking her thoughts as though they were pieces of literature.
Realizing her words immortalized her, she put more into them. Encompassing herself in them so whoever read them would see her or at least a glimpse. Her words would never die. They were the words of her youth. They would never fade away like her youth would eventually. Her works would never fade like seasons or phases. Every stroke of ink; her juvenilia.
