Well, here we are again. I kinda told myself I'd start writing now, I kinda did, but not here. It was back to square one, it was back to a newspaper! I do not know if I should be thankful for it, to the friend who led me back. Not for this, definitely, but writing! Allowing me to see it all over again, and feeling everything I did, when I first started to write. Write, write, write!
I know my handwriting sucks, but hey, I am writing. And to continue writing, I will feel it again, the touch of the crisp, white paper and the feel of that black pen, its nib out like it is ready to strike. I want to hear it, the sound of the rustling paper, waiting all this while...waiting for me, perhaps, it seems to come and write on you again.
The sounds of writing, do you hear them? I hear them as clearly as I did when I was but ten staring out of the classroom window, at the lovely green trees, with their yellow flowers. I hear the scramble for pens, and I knew then, that this would be my dream, to write!
I have found writing to be not just that. It has helped me through days of boring classes, through the times of similar meetings, through days of endless happiness as it did through moments of tears. It has been my solace and my strength.
Nothing has changed! Times are the same... nothing really had changed! So, then why should I forget to write? Why, when it has been everything for me? I do not mean writing for the job, I enjoy it sometimes.
I mean, writing for myself. Weaving stories out of imagination, out of dreams and hopes. I find it difficult to talk so I write, I find it difficult to think, so I write, I find it difficult to express myself, so I write. I find it difficult to write, so I write... I write... in secret.
