What do I find in writing? I have more often than not asked myself. To analyze, think, listen, feel, journal, create, furthermore, in blogs to find alike minds and creative partners. It had always been a relief to release myself into writing, feelings that are kept far too long and too deep within.
I was on the brink of falling apart when I found writing. My writing in turn became increasingly analytical and philosophical, more often than not laced with deeply felt feelings. But writing did not save me from the murky depths that rose out of the nights to swallow me from time to time. I yearned for understanding, to be heard, to have someone commune back at me what I had been meditating through the days. Life was prohibitively entangled and gnarled, I would cook bemusedly with half formed poems in mind, talk in enchanted dreams, and roam faintly through the house.
However, I would also read with excitement and subsequently write with equal zest. A habit gradually formed and filled my days with this repeating cycle. I had to keep a notebook by my side at all times, everything was worth jotting down, worth describing at length, worthy of reaching out; to perhaps a person who would somehow know about my moments, or an anonymous reader who would be anxiously waiting for my next piece of writing. I began to describe my days, the imaginations that often infiltrated them, and eventually I found I could not do without writing.
Yet as much as writing was magical, it was a lone journey, I was unwilling to neglect my family. And as I silently deliberated on leaving writing until later in life, much like a petulant lover it resisted profoundly. Keeping my family together became a drawn out quest instead of the writing, but as I engaged myself in my childhood pass time in drawing and painting, the arrogant writing eventually left.
Much later in life now, I decide I should give writing another chance, even if to compensate what I had to abandon then, or to enrich my life once more in listening to my inner voices. To allow them to communicate itself through articulated inflections would be a revelation, if not to others, to myself, my life, to time that has stood still for me this time round.