There is something about the way a feeling, a thought or an experience is written down on a piece of paper laced with cliches and metaphors. The way an ink of my pen wrapped in every form of carefully paced paragraphs and random peculiar of words. The way my soul is being poured in every pirouette of my pen. The way my mind unravels every heartache and failure i had. The way secrets and desires are wrapped around a tangible form. The way ideas, emotions and good intentions run on the veins of my wrist slowly being put into existence. The way it reflects the pieces of the past that unfolds every truth and end. The way i feel infinite after writing my heart out and how it will be kept for a lifetime.

I have a stack of empty notebooks and paper-back journals filled with my heart. It’s just like the pieces of photos i have kept in a cardboard box from sheer number of experiences and imagination. I write on it and immerse myself until every flesh in me falls away. It will be long hidden in the topmost shelf hoping that nobody would stumble upon it.

Writing helps me carry on with life. It helps me endure and it helps me feel. It helps me to understand and know what is real. I write to express myself and maybe inspire another. I write to forget and to remember. I pour my heart in these blank pages struggling to find the right words i have constantly been afraid to say. Maybe somewhere on the other side of the planet feels or thinks the way i do and understand what i’ve been going through.

And one day i will write in my Moleskin using a fresh ink that will slowly fill the pages of my paper-back journals. There’s something about the ebb and flow of an ink on the paper. The way it gives life to the words and thoughts i have been struggling to harmonize in my mind. And unlike typing in keys, these will continue to relive every moment even after life.