The sun has long be gone from now, letting the moon take its place. It has been long, too, since I last held a pen in my hands or touched a piece of paper. Until now, I hadn’t realized to what extent that feeling of putting words on paper was grand. It feels purifying and freeing. A few days back, I was thinking of this and a striking sentence came to my mind. Writing is a blessing. Writing is my blessing.
I have gone through an unusual flow of emotions lately and yet, for the first time in more than a year, I haven’t written them down, thinking it wouldn’t be worth it. I’d rather let the pain fade away without my intervention.
And yet, as I keep on writing those very words, a sense of liberation and tranquility seems to arise from my spirit. I admire that feeling. The way each and every word flows through almost perfectly, the act of looking closely at my calligraphy, the innocence of each sentence, unaware of what the following one could be compounded of. Oh, the air is fresh.
The quietness, lifelessness of the room endows my soul with a breath of fresh air that allows my writing to come to life on paper. In the chaos that my existence reflects, I find light and warmth again through writing. I could never give that up. The musing, the rising, the poetry — all standing still.
Through it all, I find my way back to the beauty of life which at times seems relentless. I can only marvel at the fact that despite the odds, despite all that surrounds me, beauty and humanity will always find its way back to me, back to us. It unifies us. Writing paves the way for eternity and for eternal magnificence. It keeps on getting clearer. It is more than just poetry. It is fulfilling and glorious. It is the cleansing of the mind.
Writing allows the participation of every living soul. It resides in thoughts and feelings and doesn’t exclude anything or anyone. Be it fictional works or letters, it broadens our connection. Every word possesses a living soul which may be transmitted from one person to another. It amplifies our bond with one another. I’d spend my entire time sharing written words with you if I could. I would write you love letters, meditations and stories. Because words make me strong as much as they can hurt me. Because words give me life, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this at three in the morning. Because writing gives me confidence before spending another sleepless night with my heavy mind, awaiting for another lonely and probably sunless day.
This myriad of emotions provides me withe the soothing feeling that I may be a writer, and so I hold my pen tight.
I am, indeed, a writer.
I hope that whatever the nature of the storm you may endure, be it harsh days at work, financial problems or issues of any sort, you can find solace. I hope that you have that thing that relieves you from distress and that you don’t need anyone’s shoulder to attain it. I hope you don’t feel like you need validation to savour the solace you find in it, because you certainly don’t need it. I hope that you’ve got that magical thing in your life to keep you alive. When you’re all alone, whether it is music, drawing or any other activity, I hope it brings you joy and plain happiness, because each and every human deserves to have it. I hope that you possess your safe haven.
In the Beauty of Nature, I wrote that I wished I had some place close to me that I could visit anytime I feel down which would be somewhere pure nature would blossom, it would be my safe haven. But a safe haven doesn’t have to be a place. A safe haven is merely something in which you can always find yourself. Indeed, my safe haven is writing because I can always be myself in it, unafraid of the dark truths and shady feelings.
I am, indeed, a writer.
What is your safe haven? How did you find it? Can you describe the feelings it gives you? Are you still searching for it?