If it wasn’t for writing,
I’d probably go insane.
It’s the only way I know
how to really feel.
My emotions come in forms of letters,
which magically get spun into words.
And I, the observer, sit back and watch as the pen takes me.
It’s as if the hand that moves the pen isn’t mine.
I can feel it moving,
but my mind is not the one thinking the words.
It’s almost spiritual, you could say.
It’s as if the universe knows I struggle with talking
and therefore graciously lets me share through writing.
Written words have always made more sense to me.
They’re intellectually raw and more difficult to produce,
which I tend to prefer.
I guess it’s because I have always lived in my head.
So for me,
writing comes naturally.
Yet, it may not always be pretty,
But neither are feelings.
In the end,
the value is in the effort
not in the display.
So please continue writing
I want to read all that you have to say.