I've drawn for as long as I can remember.  I can still remember being in diapers and opening a box of crayons on Christmas and that being my favorite gift.  Never mind the toy dinosaurs, never mind the toy cars, hell, nevermind the toys!  I've got crayons! 
I usually never start with a definit image in my mind when I draw.  The first line I put on the paper generally makes the deciding factor of what the image will be.  Even then there are times I will draw half a picture and instead of something I intended, I got something else completely. 
Alot of the time I'll just let my hands start working, let my hands connect within myself, bypassing the mind and




comprehension completely and let my spirit draw what was within my subconssious.  This was my vent, fully and completely.  Every image I drew became a part of myself.  My anger, my happiness, my hate, my depression and love.  Even emotions that I didnt' understand made it to the paper.  Though, as with all vents, things become recognizable, and things that to bottle up again.  I needed a new vent.

At the age of 14 I turned to reading and writting.  I found to my likings the writtings of Edgar Allen Poe.  Simultaniously I found William Shakespear just as amazing.  I decided to take a hand at writting.  I havn't stopped yet.  I fashion my style of writting after a combination of both Shakespear and Poe.  Dark, yet lively, at times obsessive, at other, pure.  Always I wrote from my mind and heart and mostly from within my soul.  I'd let an alter ego take me, my spirit, and let it have control of my hands again, let it scribble its words upon the paper.  Clean my body of an over burdence of emotion pouring out of me.  Yet again.  The vent began to close.  I needed something else.

This time I turned to music.  My inspiration, my father.  The bassist.  First I tried guitar.  No, not for me.  Too much in front, too showy, too ego driven.  I needed something else, something with design.  Something that created, not followed an already set patter.  My father handed me his base.  I was in love with it from the moment I held it.  That year, I got on for Christmas.  I remember the first song I learned "Dead babies" by Alice Cooper.  Easy single cord song.  Then I let myself free and again the alter ego took over, the soul poured upon the new pallet.  My fingers ripped through the cords and the melody poured fourth.  My emotions herd, finally a sound to give birth to my soul.

My soul then, has a face, a language, and a voice.