I like words. The way they sound.
A friend had asked, ‘why do you write?’
I think the desire to express, to be heard is human. I wrote my first poem when I was eight. At least that’s the one I vividly remember. It was for a friend who was moving away.
Writing is a form of expression for me. It lets me be. No expectations, no boundaries. Just raw thoughts on paper. It is liberating.
I started journaling in middle school. The notebook was a gift from my father. When I revisited those yellowed pages, I found it full of random musings, not a detailed account of my day, but rather thoughts swirling around in my head. End of high school, I picked up a domain name and started a blog. Yes, this space you see right here. A bunch of poems bundled away in some corner of the internet. It felt safe. It was my safe space.
I write because I want to. To an outsider, the words might seem trivial, mundane even. An abstraction. Not for anyone else to comprehend, I write for myself. Something compels me to.
It’s my form of gentle and honest observation. It helps me make sense of things. In the thick of things, I might not comprehend what is happening around me. But if I’ve documented it, in hindsight, like putting a puzzle together, it all makes sense.
It clears out the fog, an exercise in clarity.
I feel fortunate that writing found me. Words give me company. Like an old friend’s company, it feels safe. Warm and comfortable.
For as long as I have words by my side. My savior, my solace.