Writing, Itself

I started writing during my senior year in High School। For the past four years, my pen and I have composed some works on God, love, friends, hurts, acceptance, Law school and the list can go on for a day। Just a few days ago, I was given the task to write just about anything. If truth be told, writing just about anything is as hard as searching for treasures without a clue where to commence the journey.

On a Sunday morning, I sat on a stool, meticulously rummaging in mind “the-just-about-anything” issues that could substantiate my essay. From a multitude of candidates, a very simple yet profound one topped them all – writing. After all, for this particular activity, what could be a better topic than the deed itself?

Writing is a witness to my life. It can testify to my felicities, frustrations, dreams, regrets, victories, failures, and secrets. To me, paper is an abode, pen is a companion, and words are a comfort. Hence, it has become one of my passions – something that robbed a room in my heart. Every day, I bear it in my heart just like how I tote every piece of my body and being when I go to school, church or wherever. It is an indispensable portion of who I am that without it, I can still go on, but life would be reduced to mere existence. In other words, I, without writing, am not me at all. A wave of relief always flows forth suddenly in great volume whenever I am reminded that I am capacitated to document feelings in every letter, images in every word, and life in every paper. It keeps me sound and grounded.

When I stroke my pen, I find satisfaction not because my work may be adorned, but mainly because I am convinced that I am safe in the secret place of writing. There is freedom from being mindful of how others will regard me because writing laughs and weeps for me. There is freedom by unlocking the doors of my emotions. There is freedom by giving a parcel of me to the world. I can freely let what is harbored inside permeate me and still uphold myself from the judgment of the critics. For I know that despite their verdict, caused by the obscurity of the words which I deliberately wrote, I am always enabled to see through what they mean – for they emanate from the intimacy of writing and my life.

As I epitomize my life through the art of writing, it reflects the very details of my being. By and by, I get to know myself more. And, if every day I write, then daily I meet an intrinsic attribute of myself that I have never come across or learned was even co-existing with the rest of what is known to me.

However, writing does not maintain a facade of an effortless work. Why? Well, as for me, writing is a battle between what I know and what I feel. Finding the most-fitting words, phrases, and sentences I know that are parallel to what I feel is finicky. It requires me to discard what I have on-hand and tap into the things that are exogenous and unfamiliar to suitably meet its demands. But believe me, flourishing in transforming life into words is a feeling that can only be experienced by prospering in doing the same. Why? Because it is a way employed to afford myself the privilege of keeping and sequestering a certain point of this life within the four walls of my paper. And for as long as there is life in me, I can relay life to them.

To bring this essay to an end, I would like to conclude that, in a few words writing is a gift. However, it is not just God’s gift to mankind, but also, mankind’s gift to this world and back to God. It is my system of providing for my generation’s legacy. Albeit what is written is my life, still, in my works, the past is embodied, the present is recognized, and the future is anticipated – which has come, is coming and shall come to pass.