I cannot write something meaningful until I shed a piece of myself first. I used to be an avid writer. I've journals upon journals scattered throughout my life. Some filled, some with pages torn out, some burnt, some trashed, but never finished. Writing and music - my two passions. I began writing at the age of 12 - your average journal of a an angry pre-teen and attempted poetry. English and literature were always my favorite in school because my first language was Vietnamese. Through the struggle of learning a new language, I fell in love with it. Though simple, the English language intrigued me at an early age. Soon, I realized it was not only English I was in love with, but language itself. Communication and expression never fails to awe me. In beginning this thread, I had hopeful expectations of rekindling my writing skills. Thus far, I've been putting it off so much, I began to look at it as a task, as a chore. I was furious that I couldn't even think of my first album to review; however, in typing that last sentence, it has all come together for me. Why I did not realize this before, I do not know. Here goes:
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