Writing makes me a real human and keep me working with all of my senses. Through the entire literary liberation of my thoughts and feelings, I get to explode from within and make it known to the human race that I exist. Without writing, I consider myself as an incredible wart on the face of my own existence, unwanted and doomed to banish through an excision in absence of sedation.
Writing is the spine of my very soul. Without my literary executions and freedom therein, the imminent grisly murder of my literary existence comes close to its eternal repose.
I severely miss writing. I miss those beautiful moments when all I could hear are the keys pounding on my keyboard as my favorite music serenades my very soul. I miss being prolific with words which are being born in my mind. I miss words running through my veins and how they come out of my mental recesses. And I severely miss how my fingers fervently kiss each key on my keyboard for an elusive romance.
I miss this moment when my mind goes on and on, traveling with words, phrases and sentences, conveying the thoughts on things that made me mad, scared and even soothed the cares in me. I don’t know why writing is such a special thing to me. Probably it’s the bond that never abandon me despite how my moods would likely threaten my thoughts and snob my imagination. Yeah, thoughts seem to evaporate when I switch off my brain. And writing becomes a distant thing, a complete stranger whom I could barely recognize the feeling towards it when it gets back to my system. It’s like having an amnesia, leaving things all of a sudden because the brain becomes deserted, helpless, drained and losing it’s capacity to recognize it’s valuable elements of functions.
Well, I must admit that I am still lucky. That despite of my hopelessness and mental deterioration, I guess writing still welcomes me and embraces my literary incapacities towards my very self after my long journey of absence. That despite of my hesitations towards its welcoming door, it still pushes the urge in me to keep the pace and maintain the boil at par. I must be thankful that writing still welcomes my existence in its field as a relevant entity. Okay, actually, I am not telling here that I am kind of an illustrious writer that I am whose caliber should be on top and must keep my presence in the circulation no matter what the hell is going on
Here, I am making an important admission, my emotions are suffocated without breathing words, my minds turns unwell when words are out of reach. Words have to be taken out of the bitter caresses of our mental manipulations. I could always hear them shouting two words of letting go: ‘RELEASE ME’. Damn, I need my pen, my notebook and my laptop just to release myself from literary imprisonment. I need to be drugged by words and push the limits.
I must also admit, my words are like swords that can inflict lifelong pain. They can be considered as laughing gases that when released through literary air, could really cause one’s terrible literary high, of course I am kidding.
I always believe in the freedom of individual expressions, I long for my readers’ feedback. I long for their commentaries to flood my writings. And I don’t mind the rebounds although they convey heartbreaking wisdom because perfectly, this writing badly needs an overhaul as I still find my way back to my literary self after a long time spent in the niche of hibernation.
For now, writing flows in my veins already and hope to get more of it as it grows giant to mesmerise the inner core of me. Read me and let me hear you. Ciao!