I knew, as a kid, there was something about finding the time to draw. That’s really all I wanted, maybe even needed, to do. Kids draw dinosaurs, I drew dinosaurs. Kids draw their friends, I drew my friends.

Psychoanalyzing a kid’s T.Rex might not tell you a whole lot about anything but that kid.

Lunch: cheese product (smears on paper), ham product (distinct smell), Ritz (crumbs adorning said smears).

Favorites: the color blue (blue T.Rex), sitting on the ground (a distinct tile grid shaded into the green of the trees and flaming yellow sun), the tree in the backyard (costar of the T.Rex).

I wouldn’t say I remember any specific drawing, but I remember how desperately I wanted, maybe even needed, it to reflect my world.

Without fail, that kid finds new ways to connect the dots. New connections necessitate growth. Drawing matures to sketching. Crayola to Prismacolor. Though, the act of pen to paper can’t help but stay the same. If the kid is lucky, it may remain familiar for the rest of a long life.

An urge to express is not something lost with time. It does change. It fades. It burns. It does remain. If left too long, chronic makes the desire to drain an abscess of human pain.

For now, I sketch. I paint. I take pictures. I try to find a world that is familiar to me. A world that has rules because I know so and exceptions becuase I thought so. I know I can only get that through a pen and paper, ink, or a shutter, so I sit here, as time permits, and run through what has been shown to me.