Writing Therapy

To pick up a pen, to feel that smooth sleek texture beneath your fingertips. To grip between your fingers the almost non-existent weight, to slide the cylindrical body in your hands till it rests comfortably upon the grooves and calluses formed so long ago. To bring down the pen with the slightest of pressure, to aim it with long-practiced precision.

And put it on paper. 

The first stroke; the friction against the paper generating a slight scratch, the satisfaction of feeling the paper push back against you,  and black bleeds unto white like a papercut : thin, precise, clean, yet marked and dirtied forever, pure white stained by heartless black. 

And you start to write. 

Minute swishes, vicious slashes, controlled looping motions. Dot your 'i's, cross your 't's, loop the 'y's, stab the periods. A pattern slowly forms, random lines joined together to tell a story that may have never existed except in your imagination. 

And your soul bleeds unto the paper as you watch in satisfaction; finally, something tangible to represent all you feel inside. 

I used to write all the time : before I could hold a pen properly, before I could speak properly, before I could mumble jumbled-up sagas; before computers and smartphones hijacked the world. I used to hate writing -- my thoughts ran like the river, never slowing down for my hands to catch up, never running out till my hands tire and burn out. My fingers weren't agile enough to keep up with those flying thoughts, and frequently, these thoughts slip through my fingers and disappear into the land of forgotten moments. 

And then came computers. Keyboards. I learnt to type, to read and use QWERTY, to love the keys, to enjoy the satisfying clacking as the keys come bouncing back after you depress them with all your strength. Typing allowed my thoughts to be immortalised in words before they slip away like the annoying mosquito you always can't hit; my thoughts never had to slow down -- this time, my fingers could keep up. 

I became more competent at typing, and in turn, loved it more. And the more I love it, the better I became. Soon, my pens and papers were deserted in the darkest corner of my room, forgotten and unwanted, like the toys I'd abandoned while asserting my independence. 

And then typing became more of an essential life skill rather than just a mode of expression. You type assignments, you type notes, you type whatever you hear without having a chance to process it because the lecturer might say something important and you do NOT want to leave that out. Computers and laptops became enemies of your state of mind -- yes, they do still bring joy, but now that joy is tainted by the guilt of not having finished your assignments. 

Typing became a stranger. Typing became impersonal. Typing became that friend you used to hold close to heart, who slowly changed over time without you noticing until one day you take a close look at him and realise you don't know him anymore. It wasn't therapeutic anymore, typing. I could sit myself in front of a computer and my mind shuts down, unwilling to reveal anything to this stranger that I used to love. 

There are rare times when we could still get along though; sometimes I can overlook the detached look in your eyes and spew my heart out through you, to you. Sometimes I am so distressed I don't even notice that indifference; I just wanted--needed--an output who could keep up with me, with my mind. And writing was definitely out of the question. So I typed. And typed. And typed. 

And today, out of nowhere, a dark wave of clouds just rolled by and settled upon me. And without noticing it, I'd picked up a pen and started to write. While what I was writing were simply quotes, copying words out of others' minds, the repetitive strokes, the continued motions, the slight scratches as each stroke was made, the satisfaction of watching each letter bleed out, none of them in anyway similar to the other, I calmed down. 

In the midst of the chaos (my penmanship is terrible) I found calm. In the repetitive motions and clean cut lines I found a sense of belonging. And slowly, the dark clouds dissipate as I wrote and read what I was writing, and found the beauty in the language, in the individual words, at the unrestrained alphabets. 

In writing I found a sense of calm. In writing my thoughts unscrambled. In writing my courage is reborn and I can face the world again with a lighter heart. In writing, everything makes sense again; everything is worth something again. 

And in writing, I can always find myself again; as tangled, as broken, as jumbled-up, as teary, or weary, or chewed and regurgitated and spitted out, or screwed over and over again, writing builds me back up again, bit by bit, piece by piece, until the 'ME' (or a semblance of it anyway) is back in the game. 

To write, is to live. 

And what is the use of living, if you don't write it down?

Write your story. :)