Write and Writings

During my childhood and early teen, I loved to write. Many summers were spent writing secret compositions to imaginary lovers who would have been created in my mind largely influenced by the book I read that time. When these were discovered by my sibling and then my father, I endured a lot of  smacking, only for them to conclude that I was stubborn not to reveal the name of the lover who did not exist. My teen years were thus spent reading, writing and discovering emotions in all their variety and unintended consequences. The idea of love and lover has always been more alluring than the real.

I don't know why I haven't been writing my thoughts much these days.  I must have opened a thousand new word documents in the past few months and typed my thoughts as randomly as it flowed. And then, it would inevitably stop after a few paragraphs.

I then read my words and smile at the absurdity of my own words, my ridiculous philosophy and get back to something totally alleviating to the mind of a writer ...called life.

I have been wavering between a deep personal quest for a meaning, a superficial aimlessness, a kind of obscurity than can only come from the desire to write something soul stirring.

When I look at my past writings, I see a person whose wounds are so deep, gripped by a melancholy that seeped in my words like an illness. I see a person with an inability to bear her resignation of her life, its gravity and the pain.


But it was only by writing them, I came to a fuller understanding of the problems of authenticity and the problems of life on the periphery. Writing is to acknowledge the secret wound that we carry within us, the wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to explore them, to know them and to own them and to make them a conscious part of our own spirits in our own words.

Today I step back and reflect to the quiet affirmation of life in spite of all I must endure.  Have I become stronger that my mind not needing the writing therapy anymore?  I do not know the answer and I can only hope that my strength would not be detriment to my reflections.