Myself, the Writer
Writing, to me, is a kind of liberation. It is a tool to help me concertize all the energy that continues to build inside me. It is a way for me to simply let go, get crazy. It lets me shed all rational justifications and just let loose. If a painter makes use of a canvass to lash out all his ill feelings, then a piece of paper, and a pen (or my laptop) is my canvass and easel. Putting ideas, feelings, and experience in words make things more real, more tangible. Writing allows me to organize thoughts that haunt me throughout the day. If I we
When I am angry at someone and I start thinking of doing things that are considered illegal in our society, writing becomes a necessity. My chosen words are not entirely Pulitzer's, but they are a good representation of who I am and the trials and tribulations that go with existing. These words become riveting to me, like a bolt of electricity flowing through every system in my body. re to keep all these in my head, unshared, unrecorded, then I might just burst into tiny particles and dissipate. Writing is an adaptive tool for me to keep my sanity intact. When I find myself enamored over someone, these feelings seem to pressurize every cavity in my body: my lungs, my heart, my gut, even my throat. It becomes fiction, where I provide an alias for myself and the people around me. It's either I grab that person and profess every passionate bone inside me, or I immerse in a recluse state just to restrain myself from doing so. Reading what I have written, or sharing my thoughts with someone, reminds me (or them) that I am alive. Worse, I might just be strapped in a restraining jacket and never be heard of from the face of the earth. My overwhelming feelings of anger, passion, loneliness, or frustration, are transformed into a long prose. Everyone has these moments when feelings become overwhelming.
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