I realise..
Writing allows me to consolidate my thoughts,
my emotions, my nonsensical understanding of the world.
I write when I am overwhelmed, as I felt that words,
gave me the power to imagine to regain the control,
to cut me off for a little moments, to remind myself
the wonderful world around me.

Words are amazing, but can be hurtful.
They are be flattering, but can be deceptive.

I wrote very often, some time ago.
In fact, some years ago, when I was determined,
to master a particular subject which I was hopeless in.
I could not get any external help somehow, so
I could only rely on myself and only myself.
I arrived before 8am to have breakfast and
started a battle with the subject, no matter how late
my lesson was for that day, or how frustrated I was
at myself, at the subject, or at the world.

I had a little notebook, that’s not so little.
Inside, there are lots of practices, mostly wrong ones,
quite a few correct ones.. Illegible handwriting of
a particular theory or formula, random drawings at the side
that I could no longer depict what they meant to be.
The book, I still have it, amazingly, had little empty spaces.
Every empty spaces were filled with words, my random thoughts
of the day, of the moment, of the second, my rants about
my stupidity, my foolish, or even my boredom about the world.
Anything from the hot weather, to the guy who smile at his pancake,
to the noisy, rowdy classmates who get on my nerves.
Anything and everything, I penned down in the empty spaces.

I felt more relaxed after penning down. I somehow gain power
and control, and motivation to continue. But, someday, I stopped.
I guess I refuse to face the reality, I want to escape the reality,
my thoughts, my emotions, my plights and the world.
I stopped writing suddenly for that period of time, and
I didn’t really got back to writing. Words just suddenly seem..
so frightening, with the ability to bring me back into the situation,
to remind me about the evil, to reinforce my vulnerability,
to expose my weaknesses. I was too fearful to write anything then.

Even after the incident, I wrote a little, but far fewer than before.
That means I am reflecting and thinking less often, probably
I was afraid of reality. Or I have deceived myself into thinking that..
I was too busy. Then again, I used to only write when I was busy, when
I was stressed, when I was frustrated, when I was overwhelmed..

Today, I make it a point to revisit my words in the book, on this space,
and a few other random notebooks of scribblings. Memories gushed back
in an instant.. I smiled at a few, laughed at most of them.
I even felt alien to some of my very own words, not being able
to understand what I was trying to say in those days.

I shall start my writing again in a notebook and I shall
bring it around whenever I go, penning down my emotions and thoughts,
and be infused in the awesomeness of words.

That said, I have faced the reality today,
settled down on the incident that affected me,
decided on how I will face it and close my wound.
I am not sure how the scarring will be, but it will be better
than an open wound. I wish to heal it as the time goes,
but I know that the scar will remain, as part of me.


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