I am a writer. Yes I can write. Form words without a spelling error; build sentences. Sophisticated towers of ideas. Ideas that clamour to be free from the cage of my heart and mind. Words that are spilling over into random mutterings. Words that emerge with sighs, and shouts and screams, ranting and racing and twisting in agony. Words that caress and love and inspire and encourage. Loosely strung words. Racing thoughts. Tightly knitted words that are too tense to jump off the page. Words as beautiful as my daughter’s art. Words that have struggled and pushed their way out from the dark crevices to sunshine. Because they want to be free. Unfettered.
I am a writer. Yes, that is what I was meant to be. To write. Not under the stresses of deadlines, under the stranglehold of people’s terms of references, just writing like there’s not enough time, words streaming across a white page on my computer; not really heading anywhere, except that they have been released by my fingers on keys. The electronic tapping of keys replacing the tireless surfing, looking at other people’s words. Borrowing their words, because I feel mine are not good enough, bottling my mind and thoughts and imprisoning my intellect. I am a writer. Started out as one. Will end as one. Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Behind my silent lips are words. Fragments. Simple sentences. I speak them onto a page. A page that is no longer blank.