The relationship between writing and doodling

I knew this was not smart, but I just kept wishing that maybe these decisions shape who I am. Maybe the pain that I feel turns into stories, each page filling a book. Maybe the love that I feel will someday come back to me, enter my lungs, and help me to breathe again without anxiety. I am drawn out and predictable, but I am walking on fake grass and picking out the one flower in the corner of the house with the circular leaves. I step out of the grass into the ocean with three waves and a semi circle boat. I look far away and I see myself drawing the picture. I understand that I am not in control. I can not control, but I can create. Words flow like each scene of my picture, I turn the page over and try to draw another, but my past bleeds through. I cannot see the future without seeing the past. I am broken, but every picture drawn on my white computer paper comes out with wrinkles. You do not notice the wrinkles at first, Over time they become more prominent, sometimes soft. They are manipulated by time, and memories. They are strong, but they tear. If I am kind to my memories then they will not tear.