I write. A lot.I usually hold in my emotions. But these emotions I don’t readily show instead translate onto paper, where writing purges everything. Call it a sort of catharsis.I treat it as my prized work, my possession. My meticulously manufactured masterpiece.It is my duty to write.But I also use it to vent. To remember. Criticize. Satirize. The foundation of my emotions.Writing can be punctuated. Short, quick, and straight to the point. This gets to the background of the mosaic rather quickly.Other times it takes a deviant route, where anecdotes introduce the main focus. Sewn together carefully, depicting beauty, downfall, death, raucousness, celebration. The subject in the foreground.In some cases, writing can lead to a precarious cliff edge. Suspense. Then a realization, an epiphany or a reluctant acquiescence, maybe a continuing blind walk.There are so many pieces to a story.Its aim?To uncover, but not impose.To illustrate, but seldom exaggerate.To capture an infinite reality concisely.Its options are boundless, words unlimited.Most importantly, it brings out the senses and expression. Emotion.It’s breathtaking and exciting yet at times frustrating.Millions of stories are yet to be told, but a story never writes itself.That’s why I do what I do.
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