| WRITING, A DYING ART |
Today a stranger approached me in the park and asked what I was writing. I had seen him and his grand daughter stroll past me earlier as I lay in the grass, writing in my journal on Primrose Hill in London. His presence startled me as I hadn’t seen him walking towards me. He introduced his grand daughter, Sofia, and then began to ask what I was writing. I shared with him & Sofia that I have been traveling for the past three months by myself and I found it comforting to write in my journal about my experiences and reflect on everything I’ve seen and done. He explained to me how he was very impressed with my act of writing pen to paper. It’s a dying art, you see. For me, writing has always been apart of my life. Since elementary school we learned the proper way to draw letters from print to cursive. We were graded on our ability to produce clearly written letters, and I was good at it. Maybe that’s why …
native of the north 