Once upon a lifetime ago, I picked up a pen, clutched a piece of paper and dented some words into it. It felt like dripping ice-cold water down my dry throat on a hot autumn afternoon. It felt like breathing easy after splashing underwater for a few seconds too long.
If I go without such relief, after a while the pieces of my soul and shards of my hope dissipate minute by minute. I end up curled up, under a blanket without anything solid to grip except my own rushing words knocking on the back of my eyes until salt and water runs down my red cheeks. Hot and easy, tightening up my face and puffing up my eyes.
I have had no tremendous hardship in my life, no reason for me to be as broken as I am.
I am. I’m damaged. I give myself whole-heartedly in terms of my writing, in my relationships, in anything that draws some kind of passion from deep within me.
I’m so intensely emotional about things that sometimes it exhausts my very being. It is through this exercise of completely emptying the contents of my heart that I am finally intact. However fleeting that feeling might be, it is there.
“Peace is more than the absence of war. Peace is accord. Harmony” – Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone
I will write until I cannot write anymore, and even then I would want my words to mean something. If they do not touch anyone else, I will allow them to caress me.