The books are folded, the white tape slashed over. They are stacked: like sport’s equipment. I am a box, and the papers are scuttling out, the manuscripts bones. I have been part of this website for six years; but I am nearing the end of this period. I am the gothic ending to a story, the binding in a folder.

This was a new find for me, as a younger writer. I had written and submitted, read and researched. I reached the arc of my journey: when I was published. As the seasons have passed, the pink blossoms bursting into sunshine, the sun becoming autumn leaves; the leaves becoming frozen with water: I have reached the end. It has taught me what to write; how to write. I studied artwork; I sifted through books. I read fiction articles and memoirs; I expanded my portfolio.

I had been waiting to be published for a long time, like the sunset setting over a horizon. It did not matter; as long as I wrote about love: and journeys, and darkness. Seeing my name in print has completed my experience. It is the bow to a gift; the cherry to a cake.

I will be leaving soon. I hope my writing will stand for me; for all I have been through. I hope it will stay tucked away in a little corner of the internet; like a candle as its flame burns out. I am going on a new adventure; reading classic books. It is not over for me.

I will continue writing. I did not choose writing, it chose me. It will bloom and grow; as the years pass. The trees will grow gnarled; the ants eating the mud. I hope readers will continue to enjoy my literature. I hope it will endure.

Like cushions, as they stacked on a sofa, I will leave this place. Writing literature: was like drawing castles. I found creativity; I found silence, I found strength.

Farewell. Thank you.