Writing has become my saving grace. A pen in my hand and suddenly anything I feel inside is rinsed from me. White paper could become anything, could create the silliest little wonders or the biggest mistakes; it doesn’t matter. Confessions on paper will mean more to me than voicing them ever could. The words may not mean much to anyone else, but they are the only thing I like about myself some days, most days, especially these days. Someone once told me that I have to find my own salvation; even if I lose the war, at least I’ll have won that battle.
when I say “I wrote you a letter” it really means, I had so much to say to you that I had to write it down before I lost it. it means that somewhere, there are lines and lines, handwritten or typed, amongst which your name may not even appear. it means you’ve crept around my mind so long that the words started coming out in a voice that sounds just like yours. It really means, you’ll never read the pages I have tucked away, but they’re for you, all the same.
I keep thinking that I would like to start a confessional journal... but I struggle so much to write creatively, let alone to use my writing to allow my personal thoughts to flow. Having said that, I have started a fictional autobiography which I am using as a space to reconcile, heal and bridge past, present and future. Thanks for sharing.
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