Writing is not breathing life into words, it’s about filling words into your life. It’s about finding which words fit you the best, and adjusting with the ones that don’t. It’s about feeling what they say, or rather saying what we feel as we fill our emotions into words and words into emotions. It’s about living stories, that have their own stories. It’s about opening your best kept secrets to a single sheet of paper, so quiet yet full of noises streaming from our head. It’s about discovering our chemistry with the pen and the pen’s with ink. It’s about thinking aloud and yet going unheard, though seen through many eyes, read through many minds and felt by far but connected hearts. Writing is the love I never lost, just forgot to renew my pledges with. It’s the secret infactuation I hide and the powerful companion I carry. It’s the rendition of an empty soul. It’s the soft sound of a voiceless cry.
It’s the vacuum against my void. It’s happiness against my sorrows. It’s acceptance to life and a memoir to live. It’s a blanket for a bare heart, bleeding of words to share. It’s a true mate of a wandering soul and a transparent guide to memories torn apart.
More than anything, it’s the love, of a lonely heart.
Happy valentines fellow writers.