Part of me wishes I’d never picked up a pen, that I’d never begun this one-sided relationship with words. At first it was a good relationship, one of passion and peace, but over time the pen became my crutch of which I have been unable to stand without. The words began digging graves and replacing the skeletons with the sense of security I no longer feel in myself. The pen gives out pieces of my heart not yet ready to be held, and in return all I get is ink on my fingers as a constant reminder that I no longer have my own voice. I am no longer able to communicate without a nib on paper or a sheet to cover my face. They ask why I don’t end it, but that’s the thing, The pen stops the smothering of daily life allowing an escape from suffocation. It stops me from running away, pulling me in to confront the graves that I now visit at night with a comforting sense of nostalgia. The pen transforms my words into an enchanting dance that pirouettes on a page captivating people enough to hear my voice. The pen embraces me until the pain is lost, when heartbreak is a poetic song and sadness is just a prompt for beauty. The pen may be mightier than the sword, as it is now not blood shed on the page but emotion- raw emotion that can only be expressed through writing. Part of me wishes I’d realised sooner that every scar etched on the page is my own. Every word, every emotion, every line is under my control. I can manipulate movements to inscribe impressions onto the page carving a landscape of experience.
Part of me wishes I’d picked up the pen sooner.
