Writing

Originally, I never wanted to be a writer. I detested reading, and I wasn’t the least bit interested in learning enough in English class to learn how to write a proper paragraph.

To be honest, I never chose to start writing, I was more forced into it than anything. I had an acquaintance when I was twelve, one I considered my best friend at the time.

Having dealt with much bullying in my life, it wasn’t unusual for others to laugh at me, make fun of me, or make me do something I didn’t want to do. That would be everything that this individual did. She pushed me into reading, even though I hated it. She Manase me write stories, even though I had no interest in the activity.

I thought all of this was normal.

As the years went by and the abuse from this person continued, I set my sights on being an author. A published author. I spent twelve years writing and re-writing a book that I was never satisfied with. Then, one day, this person disappeared. It only came to my attention years later that my mom intervened and forbid her to speak to me or come anywhere near our house.

Thank goodness for wonderful, intuitive mothers.

Years after that, I continued to write, but it was only within the last two months that I discovered the true reason I was writing: to prove that I had worth. To show I was worth something. Then, the second realization came to me. It wasn’t that individual that I was trying to prove this to, I was trying to prove it to myself.

It’s interesting how our minds wrap us in lies and false desires to protect ourselves from the nature of abuse and being bullied.

Now, I love writing. It is a passion of mine. So, I often ask myself: if I had never ran into that person and suffered so many years, would I have never found an actual passion for writing?

I don’t know. All I know is that the past is in the past and that success is the best revenge.

And that’s good enough for me.

Advertisements

Thank You

Sleep is a necessity. It can be really frustrating when you can’t sleep.

In the same manner as my last post, this is more a candid stream of consciousness than a planned topic.

Sleep has seemed to elude me for a couple of days, but I am so grateful for the responses I’ve been getting to this blog. I’m thrilled that you all read my posts, and even take the time to comment and give them a like! So I want to issue a big thank you to all who have read my posts, liked, followed, etc.

You are so special to me! I hope you all get your own success as well. I definitely wish you the best in your ventures as you have helped me in mine.

Again, thank you.

Write On

I’m in love with writing, but sometimes I don’t know what to say. Before I make a post on here, I always say to myself, write your truth. This holds so much meaning to me because, growing up Mute, I never really told the truth. I pretended everything was fine when it wasn’t, and I swore I would never state my feelings. Though that’s a story for another day.

I’m in love with writing, and even though I don’t know what to write, I will write on.

That’s all we can do, isn’t it?

Who Am I?

I’ve always had a lot to say, and a worry that no one would be around to hear it. Having a chronic illness can be scary, especially since I’m going to turn 24 in a few months and my maximum life expectancy was eight days. Needless to say, I’ve always been worried about not being able to say all of the things that I want to say before I die. However, God has blessed me with this life, and I’m not going to waste it worrying.

So, who am I? I’ve always asked myself that, and I keep coming to one resounding answer: I am everything and I am nothing. Because a human personality, a human identity cannot be summed up with one turn, one phrase, one flick of the tongue. Because I am so much more than words on a page, and you are too. I would encourage anyone reading this to challenge what you’ve thought about yourself. Are you a test result, a grade average, a report card? Or are you so much more?

I have discovered in my short 24 years of living in this earth that while I am a writer and it is my job to describe what cannot be described, one can never truly describe the human soul. We cannot be summed up by mere words or expressions because we are so much more. We are made of stardust – the very essence of what made the sun itself. We are made of the same material, the same energy, and the same magic. If that isn’t wonderful, then I don’t know what is.

I like to challenge society, and so I will end on this note: dear reader, I am going to give you a challenge. Write down who you are. Every trait that you can think of, good or bad. The things you love about yourself, the things you hate about yourself. Anything that could describe you. Next? I want to crumple that paper up and throw it away. Shred it, burn it. Erase it from existence.

Because you are so much more than words on a paper.

Whom Is It That You Cry For?

Take the key. Unlock the door. Whom is it that you cry for? In this ready eve, among these autumn leaves, is there a way with happiness and peace you could perceive?

I am nothing but a shadow in the night. Perhaps someday I will shine bright. But for now I will enter the darkness without a fight.

Still, as I exit the door, I hear your voice once more. Now I understand. It is me that you cry for.

Flower Dust

In the flower dust of my heart, it shall take a part in the history of everything from which I would once depart. I take the dust as the essence of me, the essence of what is to be.

In lackluster days and dull sunny rays, I am filled with joy in my ways. Seeing through a lens of truth, I forever protect my youth.

And in these times that I may find mine, I will eternally know that they will be filled with knowing that is fine.

For the flower dust within me that creates me as I am, it will forever be everything that I am.

Eleven Years

Nothing is as it seems. Something sinister, time seems, but these thoughts just stream into my consciousness, throwing me for a loop.

I’ve struggled for eleven years, and began to believe that I would never reach what was at the top of that mountain. The one I desperately clawed my way up, searching in vain to find my name scribbled with the rest.

But I never did.

However, things have changed and I’m seeing wild imagination that was once tame.

With windy days and air conditioning turned up high, I dare to believe that maybe I could fly. Maybe, after all of this time, the turn to shine is mine. Because of these words I write, deep into the night. I hope that I get them right because I don’t ever want to give up this sight.

Fickle bones and small throwing stones; I hoped that I could be among those on the throne. The throne of the success that I pleaded so desperately for, for people around the world to hear these words built up at my core. And now my eyes deceive me.

For my name written now; after eleven years I am finally here for sure.

Never Say No

Thinking myself to burnt out, the words no longer coming to my mind. I am not burnt out, but simply having to mine for the words that line my very thoughts. I never thought I would be filled with infinite possibilities; but with disabilities.

Nothing can stop me from dancing to the renegade’s song. On my own I am strong. I make my own path, take part in my own life. Making passageways through the labyrinths that are mine. Mine and mine only. To me, they are holy.

I love who I am for once, and I will never give up this chance to do so. To my own self-love, I will never say no.