I like writing; it’s sort of my therapy session. At first I use to write for myself, to release my thoughts, to understand myself and as a form of relaxation. The words of Ann Frank rings true to me, “paper is more patient than people”, and I believe this is why I have a passion for it. Paper allows you to express yourself where others may cut you off. It permits rewriting, bare heavy words and flies where the joy of my heart takes it. I really don’t know what it is about writing that digs deep into my soul and coax out my essence, but it does. I started taking my writing more seriously only recently and I can’t seem to find my voice, my niche in this world of words. This bothered me, and plagued my waking moments. I truly don’t know if I will ever find my voice or maybe I have already found it and just afraid to let the world hear it. I write much better and much more freely when I know I am writing for myself. The words sort of settle in its place like a baby in its mothers arms.
When I write knowing someone else will see it…..hmmmm that’s beat on a different drum. I guess the most amazing, writing shows vulnerability, but above all it reflects truth. And the greatest truth comes to light when someone isn’t afraid to be vulnerable. I wonder if it is possible to write your truth without peeling back the layers of yourself beneath harsh lighting.