PREFACE: This piece was written over the course of three years. Parts of it were written in the spring of junior year, parts in the fall of senior year and it was finished and edited in the spring of Freshman year (college is a series of recycling old writing, isn’t it?). There is really no point in me telling you this but my friend thought it’d be an interesting fact to include.
I don’t think people really understand what I mean when I say “I love words.”
Cause I do, I love words.
I need them, I could not imagine a life without them. Every aspect of my life is shaped by words.
A particularly well arranged set of words is like taking a breath of fresh air. The kind of air the fills up your lungs, the kind of air you can only find in places that are green as far as the eye can see. I feel like without realizing it, I’m at a constant search for these kinds of words.
Words that can make a person feel.
I love music that has lyrics like poetry or fiction that has you enveloped so closely, it hurts when the book ends. I love television with clever lines or plot-lines that leave you at the edge of your seat. I think writers run the world but do it so gently that people don’t even realize.
Words surround us. We get our news from writers, on tv or newspaper or even internet articles. Our media, television and movies, everything is created by people putting words on paper.
I often get asked why I write. The answer to that, I don’t really know. I know what writing allows me to do, I know how it makes me feel, so perhaps I write to chase that feeling.
Writing is the most powerful thing I feel I can do. I often get told I talk like my brain works too fast but when I’m writing, my brain seems to slow down. It feels euphoric to be able to express my ideas in a composed way and give people a look into my hectic brain.
Writing feels like exposing myself, lying bare, vulnerable, every thought out there for others to read, it feels raw, it feels real. It helps me understand myself and my emotions. I never know how to explain it to others but when my heart aches, I pick up a pen or begin typing.
My thoughts stand clear and I understand every part of that ecstatic voice in my head, but my heart is different. My heart feels jumbly like scribbles in my chest. It feels like a puzzle that I can’t begin to solve. I feel more than people could imagine but I remain unable to decipher what my emotions tell me.
For as long as I could remember, I was a talker. I talked out my feelings. I’d be on the phone with friend or sitting on the floor, pouring my heart out. As I talked, my emotions began to become less cloudy. After an hour or two of talking, I often have a sense of what I’m feeling.
This may sound strange to those who are more in tune with their emotions but when I couldn’t talk them out, I suppressed them, often for years. Topics too taboo to discuss were deep within me, consequences waiting to pour out the older I got. At some point, I discovered that I had an aptitude for writing. I started writing bits of poetry and fiction.
It’s nights like these where it’s three in the morning and all I want to do is cry that I sit with an open word doc, typing nothing in particular and I can truly appreciate the power of words. I love writing with all my heart and soul.
Writing feels powerful, a few strokes of a keyboard transport me to a world of my own creation, I can shape it how I want, I’m a genie of my own making. Contrary to what this blog makes it look like, I primarily write fiction. I love the ability to tell a story that lives nowhere but my head. It feels like magic.
By putting ink on paper, I can create characters, I can create conflict, I can mold stories that may mold people. With a few simple words, I have the ability to change a person’s perspective. A lot of times that person is myself.
Writing teaches me empathy, I can put myself in other people’s shoes, I can walk a day in their life, It’s how I learned to understand other people and where they come from. It’s how I learned that there is something pure in all of us that is too often tarnished by the world around. So, I pick up my pen and I write what’s pure, what’s tarnished and I try to learn why.
Writing isn’t something I want to do, it’s something I have to do. It feels as natural as breathing air or drinking water. So I consistently let my mind wander and write it all down. I write the pain, I write the confusion, I write the happiness and the love. After all, when I don’t write my stories, they escape and wither away, untold.