Again

Cluttered.

Thoughts, memories, feelings

In my head they’re

all jumbled.

Hesistant.

Just because i’m afraid

Perhaps it’s safer to be

patient.

Broken.

But you were not afraid

Because you know how it feels to be

abandoned.

Changed.

That’s what i am

though i try hard not to,

i am awakened.

Torn.

Between longing and fear

Between the present and a past

that’s long gone.

Brave.

Not who i am but who i’m trying to be

Because it requires so much

to let go,

move on,

forgive,

forget,

and begin again.

"Again" by E.Y

Best things in life

I read somewhere that the best things in life aren't things. That's pretty true, but i can't agree completely.
Things can bring out feelings and senses, evoking memories. Sometimes they remind you of something you want to forget, sometimes they remind you of what's important and dear.
There's so many things, different things at different seasons of my life that are priceless. And my constant have been books. Storybooks. The smell of a new book or the touch of paper beneath your skin. Off i go on another adventure, leaving everything behind me. I love curling in my blankets on a rainy day, with a cup of warm coffee, that cosy feeling that makes everything alright, even if it's just for a few hours.
Temporary escapism, i guess.
But it's one of the things i treasure in life. The best things- they're not free, but they're simple.

Write again?

I miss writing. I miss the way my heart swells with excitement and beats so fast until i can’t sit still- i have to write those words down, words that are tumbling off the edge of my mind like a waterfall. A cascade of nouns, verbs, adverbs and prepositions, tangling with one another until they form a sentence. Sentence by sentence intricately linked together, forming a story. One that i have to tell.

Nothing beats the feeling of watching words come alive on paper. When you’re writing, they’re your words, given birth through alphabets coming beautifully in order.  

Now why is it so hard to write then? Obviously not for the lack of stories or inspiration. I guess it is fear. Fear that cripples the mind and grips your hands so tight that they dare not move or write.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of disapproval.

Fear of mistakes.

Fear that it is a waste of time.

Fear that i don’t have the talent.

Fear that i leave a story hanging- halfway done.

But i come to a point that i don’t want to care anymore. So be it if i suck in this. I’m writing because i love it. Telling stories even if people don’t want to hear it, watching characters in my head coming to life, exploring possibilities- of what could have been if only i’ve tried.

Everyone has a story to tell. But not everyone tells it. And that is a shame.