In the early months of 2017, struggling to force myself out of an over five-year writer's block, I would leave for the office early to secretly write and record songs for an anniversary gift in empty meeting rooms. While looking through old notebooks a while back, I happened across a poem I’d forgotten I had written. Scribbled on a page opposite drafted lyrics and notes, it was the only other thing I could push through my block at the time. Looking back, almost five years later, it's one of the most telling things I was ever able to write down.

For the longest time, I never really considered myself a poet, a writer, or any other kind of “artist”...

For some of the above, that remains the case, but, as far back as I can remember, I've always carried some kind of notebook on me, and I've always filled it with something. Be it poems, bizarre (and loooong) journal entries, short stories, drawings, comics, there hasn't been a time where I haven't loved having something to pour my imagination into.