Why Write?

When I started writing I never knew I could end up this way. In fact, my first literature writing was mandatory and I expected nothing more and nothing less - it was just an assignment that I needed to comply.

I wrote a poem.

Then I wrote another.

And another.

Util I found myself enjoying the way my words turns my imagination into more realistic. Something that I could really feel and picture in my mind. Ideas grew more inside of me and my heart grew fonder, I wrote and wrote until my ideas became wilder and free.

Writing became my source of happiness and strength. I started to notice every little things and matters everything that some people choose to ignore. Writing became my safe haven and my run away cloud.

I wrote about love.

I wrote for myself.

I wrote with no limitations and expectations.

I wrote everything I could think of not minding the grammatical errors.

I wrote with all happiness.

Then I decided to share my happiness.

I posted some online. I posted more and more hoping someone could find happiness in them too.

Comments start flooding and the likes I've earned filled me with more happiness.

But then the happiness came less.

Both positive and negative comments drowned me.

People were demanding for more until I sometimes write mandatorily.

Like how I wrote for an assignment with a deadline and fidgeting if I could pass or not.

Limitations slowly boxed me and expectations choke me with its force.

I double-no, triple check my works for grammatical errors.

Until the happiness I once had was drained out of me.

I was left dumb-founded finding any source to write about. The little things I noticed before vanished before me - I could no longer see them.

Until I wrote about sadness.

Then I am writing for myself again.

I wrote about depression and anxieties hoping that writing could soothe my pain.

I wrote for the sad people.

I wrote about tears and bruises and scratches and brokenness.

But then again, I was left with another blank sheet of paper clueless of what to write. I could no longer write about happiness and sadness because neither described how I felt.

I felt empty. Speechless.

I ran out of words.

And that's the saddest thing a writer could say,

"Sorry, I ran out of words"

Words ran before me. Words left me before I could even beg for them to stay. My nights were filled with sobs and murmurs no one could even understand. I felt something inside me but I do not know what it is.

Some nights, I stare at the paper wondering if words would come visit me someday again or if it'll ever comeback. I wonder where they've gone or in what point did I lost them. Is it the time when I drowned myself in alcohol to forget the things I wanted to abandon? Did I forgot them too ? Did they flowed freely out of me as I gulped the last drops of booze? I wonder if I puked them somewhere.

But until now, I still hope for them to come back. I want them to flow through my veins again and start a fire with my brain. I want them to clear my sight and let me see things differently. I want them to fill my emptiness and recognize feelings I forgot to appreciate. I want my fingers to start itching for papers and pencils and keyboards.

I want to write again.

Evenly this time, both benefiting myself and others.

I want to write with passion and burning sensation of addiction with writing.

But this time, No limitations and expectations.

A what you see, what you get.

But until that time come,

Sorry, there's no words for me write.