“You can’t blame a wandering mind”
I told them while they mock me with their looks. I was performing a literary piece called VENGEANCE IS NOT OURS IT’S GOD’S by Mrs. Patricia Latay Bernabe, it was way back eight years ago. I am really a child so thin and so young but I’m not poor. Friends are hard to come by especially when they think you’re different and that you should be avoided. Thankfully, I have had two real friends, two guys who are as geek as me. Going back to my story, that moment, I told myself that I’ll be on my way to being a writer.
Since then, everything that is happening to me or the people around me is jotted down on my journal. Every joy, sorrow, lust and shambles are crafted into poems or essays. Sometimes I do short stories. I’ve always been the girl on the far end of the corridor, doing things on her own. It’s just that when people throw away rocks at me, I throw them my words.
Note: The next part is kinda weird for me because I’m gonna tell why is writing my poison.
The downside of this thing is that I feel so depressed whenever I’m not able to write and whenever I can feel every word that I write. I never reread my works way back because I feel so contained and those words should be kept inside a lost and found box. Now, I found the courage to reread them and channel my inner desires to keep writing. Therapeutic as what I may call it but it is also my poison. I feel like I am the darkness that chase away light in people’s hearts (or in my heart). The fine line between the devil and the deep blue sea. Writing is everything to me but every time I do write, it gets into my very nerves and be depressed about something unseen or not felt.