top of page
Search

Running Letters: Why we love writing



Writing is like a blindfolded walk through the forest. It’s not about the unpredictability of your surroundings, but rather a self-imposed uncertainty. Each word lies alone in a different fragment of your conscience, which, gathered together like sticks, can ignite the fire of a story. I’ve always loved writing as a form of venting or coping mechanism and felt superior about my linguistic inclination. But then I discovered teen authors.


Each time I sit down to write, I feel more deeply in touch with my emotions and who I am. By momentarily transporting you to a realm away from earth's misery and ecstasy, writing heightens your senses and makes you feel alive. Alive in a world only true to you. How many of us haven’t written terrible poetry about a crush or any other tragic thing in our lives? The adrenaline rush of ripping words out of your heart and hurriedly jotting them down in your notebook is unparalleled. Comprehending your bared soul’s foolishness is the essence of writing.


This is why muses, secret lovers or the subject of any other work of literature will always be my envy. The way their love is envisioned, captured and expressed is almost an act of rebellion. The whole idea of ‘Always the poet, never the poem’ rises from this insecurity of never having someone be vulnerable enough to themselves comprehend how deeply they feel about you, let alone convey it. 


Even someone’s writing style is widely indicative of their personality. How elaborate or concise they are, the references, vocabulary and metaphors used speak more volumes than a regular conversation. I’ve grown to love several authors from their works, and this form of second love is the unique connection that only the arts can provide. Looking through someone else’s perspective and seeing the world through their eyes is truly the most intimate thing a person can experience. The tongue can lie, but the hands stem from the heart.




198 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

My Body Has a Garden

My gut grew sweet alyssum and daisies while the roots perched firmly in my flesh. It grew a garden For the sole reason "butterflies." My inner thigh trembled While my eyes held baskets that made my fa

5 Seconds in my Head

five seconds in my head 5 things I can see. Easy. The bathroom light. My jelly-like hands. The curtains blowing in the wind. The frames of my glasses. My loose hair. 4 things I can touch. Easy. The co

More from us...
bottom of page