I've been sitting here, typing out something that's been tap-dancing along my mind, while looking up every few minutes, I'd look up as my roommate, the one who I've lived with for going on a third year now, sits there writing out the first part to what she had titled her memoirs. She seems to have found her niche in the writing world, despite how chances are, her profession may not allow her to go down that road. I'm almost proud of her for that. Not because I have chosen writing as my path in life, but because she's actually writing out something that's making her happy.
As pathetic as that may sound, I've known this person for almost five years. We've gone from text based vampire games and sparsely blogging to writing out that which affects us the most. Mine have been allowed out through the joy that is fiction, while she's going taking the route that I fear to go down -- Non-fiction.
I suppose that's the route we've both taken in our own ways. We've been "blogging" for years now, though the identities have changed to those who do not know us. She's just chosen to elaborate upon that, though she does not plan on forgetting her roots. I've been told that everything she's written will be going into her livejournal. Can't say that I've not done the same. Just I've not let them be read.
It's funny how things have turned out.
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