I write because I don’t know how to exist without writing. It’s a part of me. It is me.
It started with reading and books, and it began when I was little. I loved crawling into a lap of a loved one and hearing a book being read to me. It was better than anything else I could have imagined. It made me happy. It made me feel loved.
When I could read myself, I would snuggle into my bed or curl up on the couch and drift away into another world. It comforted me. I found understanding.
When I could write myself, I felt free.
I wrote short stories, “books,” letters, and poems. I especially loved journaling. It was a time where my writing didn’t take thought. It didn’t matter about punctuation or what somebody else thought. It was purely me. I would open to a blank page without any ideas in my head as to what to write about, and yet in a matter of minutes the page would be filled. Somehow my heart and soul would spill out through the pen in my hands, and the words expressed explained the depths of me. I felt release.
And as I continue to “grow up” and I read books, stories, and poems from others…I feel inspired. Because of someone else’s gift I am changed. I am able to see things differently because of the words someone else’s heart and soul expressed. It brings clarity.
I continue to write because it brings happiness, comfort, understanding, freedom, release, inspiration, change, and clarity. And I only hope and pray by sharing my writing, my heart and soul through words, that maybe just one person can experience something of the same.
In writing, I have found me. I have found my reason to be. It is my gift and it is mine.
© 2008 “Le Musings of Moi”
