There has always been something about writing that is so inexplicably liberating. Perhaps, it is why the people who feel like they are being caged become writers— simply because they resemble wings.
And maybe this is why, I, too, hold onto literature like it is my life— because, perhaps, it is.
The thing is that I fall in love writing each time because it gives me wings to fly with. It hands over a key to unlock doors to another life. It offers me an escape from a miserable existence. It is not just an activity or pastime. Not just a hobby.
It almost seems as though my lifeline is wired to it. My breathing capacity is measured by the amount of lives I touch with my words.
I live to write. To breathe letters into space and call it literature. To shape hearts of monumental proportions at the tip of my pen. To celebrate the little things that matter.
I used to think that I write for myself— to express what my mouth has limited me to speak up about, to cater my dying need to voice out my thoughts. But I’ve come to realize that this is all baloney.
I have never intended to hold a pen with the idea of impressing the people around me in mind. I fill words in these blank sheets because I wanted to take a stranger places, to make them experience a feeling that they can never experience anywhere else. I want to take people to journeys in time and space. I want to touch hearts, induce growth and teach life lessons.
I have already come to terms with the fact that perhaps, it is true that my heart has always been someplace else. That I was never meant to stay here. With all the wildness going on in this goddamn head of mine, it would simply be an act of insanity to just leave all the wildness in here to rot. I had to let it bloom for the world to witness, to experience.
Because when I am in writing, I am in both my purest form and deadliest state. I am not certain as to why this is so. All I know is I love being a writer— like second nature. Like an impulse, I could not ignore.
To weave words in their most perfect order. To become a mouthful of stories about this imperfect life. Because this is me flying. This is me being a writer. Escaping— holding the keys to whatever universes out there that awaits me.