THUS IT BEGAN

THE WRITING JOURNEY

It began as a reprieve.
A refuge when the world was "doing the most".
It was a means of expression.
A means of being heard.

It was where my silent tears found company.
A means that brought me together
To seize the bull by the horns.

A never-say-die hand that kept me steady
A raincoat that kept me warm in the rain
A shadow that provided me with comfort.

Writing.

It was a way to be heard rather than seen.
A means to be noticed yet concealed.
It did not demand that I be perfect.
Bristle, rough, broken,
It welcomed me.

Dejected, worn out, despaired,
I found solace in it.
Liberating me to be,
Unafraid, unashamed.

Writing.

Memories far too fragile,
That the wind would sweep away.
It preserved.
Laughter too joyful to forget.
It conserved.
Words too heavy to be said.
It deciphered.

Writing.

The power those alphabet strings can provide,
The beauty in the rhymes,
The repetitions.

Figures of speech in an open secret,
That makes you puzzled.
That makes you crack and crackle.

Writing.

It eludes me how such a blessing as this
Is under-appreciated.
The twisted mentality
That thinks of writing in ways
Less than the beauty it is,
Makes me squirm.

Don’t you feel rejuvenated
When, in your closet,
You pour out your emotions?
Sometimes in plain words,
At other times
Well hidden in stories and poems.

Don’t you feel less alone
When you intricately weave your words
To elicit feelings you thought were lost?

Does it not make you think and ponder?
Isn’t it a safe haven from the world’s judging gaze?
Does it not give you peace of mind,
Not having to put up any fronts?
Or hide behind any facade,
Does it not?

Can you in the comments section tell me what writing means to you?

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