I used to be a writer.
I used to be a writer. I used to be that girl hanging off a train, a head throbbing with words I knew I had to tell. I used to take the local train. For the stories it relentlessly held. (Now, I take the short walk by the lake to work.)
I used to attend poetry readings. My head wrapped around other becoming poets, my hand wrapped around a whisky glass, my heart around a piece of poetry I had hurriedly crafted for the evening. I used to recite my own poetry and wait for an audience to react.
I used to hurry off work to a book club meeting. A writers club meeting. A favourite authors’ book launch. A play. And sneak in that cup of Suleimani Chai, and then another. (Now, I barely sneak in a filter kaapi from the neighbourhood store.)
But, I’m a marketeer now. An online brand manager even. A teacher in parts. A bit of an exercise junkie. A traveller. A home-keeper.
But, I used to be a writer.