I write for everything

aldous huxley

I am listening. The window is open to my right, the air has been cooled from the drop in temperature and the rain from previous night. I let myself to sleep hearing the spluttering on the roof, and I adored how I was tucked in the softness of the bed with the book set in Kyoto open in my hands. The surroundings being a completely different world, and but what you have in front of you, in that hand is the story of such passion and love for art, the traditional way of the culture in Kyoto specifically, (because Kyoto has been the centre of Japan for the first half of the history, it holds pride and much deeper side of the Japanese culture) and I am wondering to myself where I am at all.

I have always loved fiction and read them intensively when I was a lot younger. One reason was to escape the reality surrounding me, because I always felt so alone. As long as I am reading, they would not leave me there in the empty space of the playground, but would invite me to walk down the path with them. I was always so scared of being alone although that’s what I ended up getting most of the time. Always the new weird kid from another unheard location and the rebuilding of community and relationship wore me out. The more I moved around, the more fearful I became of people, like I knew I would lose them if I got any closer, or that there was always a story I could never resonate of share with them. I was standing on the verge of everything, never within, never included.

The sense of being outside, but sometimes not outside enough, have played with my emotions a lot and understanding, the analyzation of those were required.

Maybe that is one of the reason to write.

I am revisiting the unwanted memories and the uncertain things in my mind and writing them down, thinking as I go.

Walking around the fragments of those thoughts would sometimes evoke new connections of past which I refused to remember.

It is not always pleasant, a lot of the time, I feel like crying, or that regret of no saying the things meant at that moment, so many things I cannot change and questions, doubt for the choices I have made.

And yet, writing it down, drawing the connectivity, is what I find myself doing, naturally, like this is what I do to cope with it all, but at the same time, enjoying the release of it all.

Standing outside is hard, it never gets better for me, there is always the conflict of wanting to hear what people are saying, but the fear of not being accepted, to be casted away.

But I write anyways, I am still scared as hell, I don’t want to get too close to anyone, but I write for everything.





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