Maybe Writing Is…

Being a writer is like living with a continuous bell ringing in the mind, an endless search for the next story to tell.

Few years ago, I lived with that bell constantly ringing, yet I never actually put pen to paper; I would think of writing, but I never did, and that silence eventually began to mess with my mind.
Whenever I had a meaningful conversation with my friends or family, I thought maybe I would write about it.
Whenever I made a mistake and was having a bad day, I thought I would write about it.
Whenever I saw patterns in human behavior that seemed rooted in childhood, I thought I would write about it.
For every trip I took, I thought I would write about it.
Whenever I said something motivating to myself while looking in the mirror, I thought I would write about it.
When I saw a small child laughing in the corner of a shop, I thought I would write about it.
When I saw a child in a village playing with friends, I thought I would write about it.
When I saw a quote on social media that made me stop scrolling to truly read it, I would start a monologue in my head and think I would write about it.

But back then, the words stayed trapped inside.

Maybe writing is an excuse I use to bridge the gap between who I am and who I wish to be.
Maybe writing is about wanting more, while still feeling grateful for what already exists.
Maybe writing is an escape to pen down the things you only feel when you are truly alone.
Maybe writing is about structuring the mind and aligning thoughts to finally declutter the soul.
Maybe writing is a subtle way of accounting for how your day truly went.
Maybe writing is about having a platform to embrace your inner child and let her breathe.
Maybe writing is about feeling less lonely and more in company with yourself.
Maybe writing is about telling yourself the things you would generally only share with your inner circle.
Maybe writing is about the desires and imaginations that only the darkest corners of the brain dare to think of.
Maybe writing is also about the brightest, most radiant parts of your mind.
Maybe writing is about the conversations you wished someone would have with you, without you ever having to ask for them.

This is why, now, when I think I will write about it, I actually do.
My days feel fuller because I am no longer just a spectator, but a chronicler of my own life.
My bonds have become more peaceful because I’ve found a place to process them, and my mind feels less stressed because the weight of my thoughts finally has a place to land.
Even when I am alone, I am never truly lonely—I finally have my own company, and a pen to share it with.

Happy one year to my blog page, and thanks to everyone who has read my blogs. You already know me a little better.