One started off as a zealous and long-winded romantic at age ten or so.
Rather lengthy pieces of winding verbal architecture, written in an awful archaic fashion, full of passion, strength, served with a side of pre-puberty emotion, swimming in the wake of some Shakespearian induced fervour.
In fact, until quite recently I felt rather ashamed of the whole lot - silly words from a silly mind, and would rather have the whole thing buried. Preferably in some one else's yard.
Yet over the years I have pilfered from those same stanzas - slivers, sections, just the right shape for the missing piece in the jigsaw of words, feelings, and the world around us.
So I stopped hiding the child I was so ashamed of.
The emotions in the words and ink had not changed.
My perception of them had.