Writing has always been therapeutic for me – that moment when the pen makes contact with the paper… It’s like an endless love story. At a young age, I kept a diary where I would journal my dreams, outfits for the week, daily recap, and boys who I thought were cute. Since those days, the times have changed and I now keep a bunch of notes on my iPhone with everything from imaginary dog names to list of goals I wish to accomplish for the year. (I guess my content changed, too.)
I remember always making time to reflect my day on paper and that was my way to unwind. However, I can type much faster than I can physically write, which is why I resort to typing out my thoughts, ideas, and feelings now.
Sometimes it isn’t the same.
I take my time with each word when my thoughts are slowly coming together, so each letter is precise and legible. In other moments, my chicken-scratch penmanship comes alive on the college-ruled paper when I’m pouring every single thought out in front of me… To have my thoughts be physically present. The rawness of crossed out marks throughout my paper because I found another way to express it… It’s a creation, really. They are masterpieces. There’s so much emotion behind every mark on the paper. Some little doodle of flowers on the side, where I drifted away and daydreamed or an area, where I wrote with a heavy hand to showcase my anger that day… Beautifully captured on paper.
Other times, I have found myself to have fallen in love with the sounds of crisp click-clacks of the keyboard. The melody is soothing when I find myself typing far too much for my recipient to read. Sorry, boo. It was a song that I didn’t want to stop listening to.
But this melodic alternative isn’t a full reason as to why I no longer write anymore. Who wants to waste paper? (More so, who wants to go out and buy paper?) Haha. Trying to lighten up the article here. Anyway.
I’m trying to be better at picking up this hobby again. It did wonders for my younger years when I needed to be heard by someone who I didn’t have in my life.
In any form, I long to leave my emotions on paper, so that it is no longer in me… Stuck in me. It is now floating freely and the universe may do what it pleases with it, such as disappear in the wind that create these beautiful waves and ocean breezes. All that is left is the ghost of my pain that the pen has witnessed and translated onto paper.
Sometimes I go back and allow the company of those feelings to enter again, but I remind myself not for long. I remember those nights where I cried and felt lost because there was no one I could turn to. The struggle of having immigrant parents and seeing their pain, but pride wouldn’t let them express it. Those tears that were dried on those papers are exactly where they needed to be. In a box to the left.