drabbles

on writing

I realised that lately, I've been writing about real life more often now. Not fiction or fantasy or romance like I used to.

Some part of me still dreams of dragons with crystal scales and fiery breath, of rolling grass fields of fluffy grass and multicoloured flowers like drops of paint on a green canvas, of noble knights and royal princes and mysterious wizards. She still reads books and watches movies or shows with that same starry-eyed gaze, letting herself be whisked away by charming characters and addicting storylines and dreaming of being spirited away to some other universe instead of her reality.

Writing has always been a form of release for me, I think. A way to convey the feelings I can't and won't ever speak aloud otherwise. Sometimes, even a way to process and understand why I'm acting the way I am, or to unravel a tangled ball of emotions in my chest.

I don't know whether it's a good or bad thing that I've been doing it more often now.

I guess it's like a form of therapy. When I write, my thoughts flow better. I type things that I didn't know were true, and then I try to unpack that and write down the thought process that led to it. I just breathe, and my fingers tap against the keys quietly like an exhale, a release of pent-up emotions I didn't even know I had.

Sometimes I write for my future self, who goes back and reads what I wrote, and tries to alter some parts that don't feel quite right until it fits my mess of thoughts better. Sometimes I write purely for the release in that one second, cringing at the words I wrote and refusing to read them again until the wound is no longer fresh. Sometimes I write to try and comprehend, to try and trace out my thoughts and emotions and carefully lay them out until I can make sense of the screaming static in my ears.

Sometimes I write just because I can, getting high off that thrill of feeling words flow like a river from my mind to the tips of my fingers, tapping away at the letters I barely even glance at to chase that adrenaline of being just at the right time, in the right space, writing like no tomorrow.

And, you know, maybe there won't be a tomorrow someday. Maybe I'll die in my sleep dreaming of those same worlds I can't ever have. Maybe I'll take a particularly bad fall down the stairs that I won't stand up from. Maybe I'll finally stop eyeing the railing and find out how it feels to actually fall instead of just idly picturing it whenever I'm bored.

I don't know where I'm going with this, honestly. I guess I just want to say that writing experiences down leaves me with fewer regrets and less confusion. Writing the palpitations of my heart and the shine of my eyes and the tremble in my fingers makes all those things feel just a little less overwhelming, you know?

Writing makes me feel alive, is what I want to say. Writing makes me feel like I can breathe a little better, see a little clearer, stand a little taller and talk a little louder. 

Writing feels like home—is what I would have said, maybe just a few months ago.

Writing isn't home now, not really. Home is gently tugging hands and laughing until you cry and too-hot fries that taste delicious anyway. Home is offering help without expecting repayment and holding hands like it's natural and quiet reassurances like a constant that steadies you just by existing. Writing is just a way to cement that warmth of home, to recognise and appreciate it. 

Writing is just a way to help me love life a little more. 

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basically im just saying im sappy and im tired and I should have gone to sleep an hour ago and that I'll regret this tomorrow but god I thank the heavens every day that I was given the ability to write bcuz I honestly don't think I would've made it this far without that tbh