It seems ages since I last spoke to myself. Writing what I feel and divulging all the pain inside me is something I have turned away from…not because I don’t want want to confront myself or accept the truth. I fled because of the stark realization that I don’t know how to even word them.
I supplied my brain with alibis that disguised themselves as reasons. I told myself that writing would only be to my detriment and so I must stop, forget it and release myself from its weight; that I can live without imprinting my emotions in the languor of prose.
I don’t know where to start or if there’s even a beginning in this path I’m traversing. All I know is that I died and with my death, my pen too was buried.
I was enamored with words–all of them. I was fixated with how a word can evoke beauty, inflict pain, offer deliverance, and even transcend mortality. But words are just that. They will fail you for they do not hold any veracity in them unless supported by movements, gestures, acts.