I Write Because I Love, And My Love Is Writing

I started to write when I was in my 3rd grade. As early as 9 years old, I already wrote my own poems. Back in high school, I started to create my own short stories and articles. At the same time, working as a Feature Editor on the same school. In college, I started blogging up until I was able to realize that writing is my passion, my comfort zone.

Writers are a weird bunch. They love words. Why is it so fulfilling to type/write out my thoughts? I feel a sense of completeness when I write. I hold a pen and start writing in a notebook. I open up my laptop and start to type away and right now I am enjoying the mere act of typing my thoughts.

Love has no reason, or so they say. But, my love for writing might have a reason. I knew it in the beginning but perhaps I have lost it. Perhaps, it is buried somewhere deep in the pages of instructions and structure that we have to follow.

The pleasure of writing is not in recognition; it is not in the appreciation. The best pieces of writing are the ones you don’t want to share with anyone because you don’t want to cloud your thoughts with someone else’s thoughts. You want those thoughts for yourself. You only put them on the paper to make sense of your thoughts. The mind and brain can get bogged down with junk–thoughts about people whom you try to forget, thoughts of memories that belong in the past–they cloud your sight and occupy much needed space in your mind. I say mind because that’s where memories reside. Not heart, because heart only beats faster and slower at the thought of some memories–and that’s why people think they experience the emotions of love, fear and hatred. It all begins in the mind and ends in the heart and it becomes a physical pain or pleasure depending on whether you are in love or you have been hurt. They say wounds heal with time. Some wounds leave scars, some don’t. You never stop loving a person. For a while it turns into hatred and anger but when the water has cooled down and you think about the bad blood you left behind, you decide that it takes more energy to hate than to love. You never stop loving someone; you just learn to live with it.

You realize at some point along the way that losing a loved one can make you love better. You learn how much love you have to give. In the absence of that one person to shower your love on, you can now share that warmth with many others. Hopefully, your ex-love (or should I say former love so as to be AP style correct) was so powerful that you can now accept that even if you love each other, you have to live separately for each other’s happiness and today I can write this without any qualms. Tomorrow, I might cry again.

I write to understand my reactions to different situations. I write to make sense of how others react to me. I write so that I can feel one with my thoughts. Many thoughts just slip away into the abyss of unknown and irretrievable things. What is life but a string of thoughts connected by the thread of time?

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