Writing was an art for me and then I hit a wall years ago. I was unhappy, therefore I never wrote. This meant I never spoke, I never used the voice I was given to scream what I feel, what I see in you, in them, in me.
Funny thing looking into a mirror can do….the prisoner was holding the key to this very cell the whole time, the prisoner was me. I was finally happy. So I wrote again.
I wrote, my veins bled with stories of pain, wonder, and above all heart break. Simultaneously I saw people around me suffocating on the own words they chose to never share. Choking on their emotions. A noose that they wrapped around their neck themselves. And so their pain was my own. It was my own because I became the voice they had permanently placed on mute.
I for one forbid filters for myself, restrict myself from building a wall around my heart anymore. Therefore as I sing melodies of my troubled soul, I in turn paint their own on a canvas. I translated the emotions I saw in their eyes. Eyes that glistened, that yelled for me to interpret.
I write for them, I write for myself. A way that I can feel I am doing a service to others. A way that I can touch them so deep they savor my sunshine even after I finish another chapter.
I was always reluctant to share these secrets of my own, and theirs. But all it took was a little curiosity, and I let my words be alive. Moments like these I am thankful I have my writing to escape the reality of my pain. But these are also moments I wish I never wrote in the first place.
I always wrote to be understood. How naïve of me to think that would always hold true. I forgot about the shitty part of being a writer and being misunderstood. The moment you wish you never wrote in the first place.
PolaroidPages 