My inner writer is the warm fuzzy blanket around me when I cuddle up with a mug of hot chocolate.

My inner writer is a being made up of everything that I love - the crunching leaves under my feet, the salty licks that my dog gives me, the sadness and the joy, the dreams and the hopes. She is fabricated from everything that I hold dear, and keeps a locket around her neck to hold onto all the memories that I may forget - the little moments that secretly influence who I am.

She and I both long for the vast possibilities that lay silently waiting on a blank piece of paper. She and I both wish for the tingling sensation when we touch a pencil.

She may be different from me, but I know that all she really is, is me.