Have you ever tried looking at the wide horizon when suddenly your sleeping thoughts pop out of your head? You start to lose yourself in the deep ocean and it becomes hard for you to reach the shore again.
There are many things I don’t understand. I resort to the sweetest violence my pen and paper can offer — to write about them.
There are realities I don’t understand.
I don’t understand why some people neglect hearts.
I don’t understand why some people can easily get over with their first love.
I don’t understand why some people are afraid to feel again.
I don’t understand why there are times that the world will remind you of the things that hurt.
I don’t understand why some people trust love too much that they are more than willing to take risks for it.
I don’t understand feelings, how to validate if it’s real or not.
I don’t understand why I can write about them, yet cannot comprehend to its meaning.
All these years since you left, I started to slowly not understand what my heart wants to tell me, what it wants to make me feel again.
I have become deaf to its beat. I have become dense to its emotions.
Yet this is probably the reason why I still write sad stories even if time already healed everything, because you left me with a universe that I don’t understand.
My literary refuge kept me safe all these years. I move in my own world. I wander on my own thoughts. I lose myself in a wide pool of feelings, different emotions and sudden realizations.
I write what I cannot say verbally. I write what I cannot express through actions.
I write what breaks me and what makes me whole again. I write what I want to hide from the world.
I write my deepest darkest fears and my sincerest purest joys. I write my life-changing experiences and my expectations in the future.
I write what I want myself to remember. I write what I want to keep away and forget about.
This is the beauty of writing, a literary refuge. The most trustworthy keeper of every fear and discouragement, and of every hope and admiration.
These words give me courage, it knock down the coward in me, and pull myself to be brave and face what I feel.
I will write as long as my heart is beating, as long as it is breaking, and as long as it is trying to fix together its pieces all over again.
I will write as long as I don’t understand the reasons why.