I forgot that words are also for telling stories.
I am a writer. I always say that I am writer. Some people would associate without second guess the word “writer” with my name. Disclaimer though, I am not a published writer. The only things published are the thoughts I have on this blog, and the previous blogs I had. Yet, I still write. With aspirations to become a published one. (But then, I’m really just happy writing.)
Then I became too preoccupied with many things. As was always my predicament for the past few months, I kind of stopped writing. I don’t know how I did. I just know that I stopped. Maybe because I’m too lazy to start scribbling again and organize my thoughts and (ahem!) feelings. Then I read these stories my friend wrote. I read the stories my students wrote for an activity I asked them to do. I read the stories of people whose blogs I read. And I thought, This is what writing is also for. To let the unsaid stories out there. To say what is unsaid. To let people, places, events known through stories.To share. Even, to inspire. I guess I got too comfortable with my rants. I was always ranting that words, words that I hold special, become senseless and stupid. It seemed to be me that I was wasting beauty. Oh, myself and my sentiments.
And so today, I write to remind myself of the stories yet to be written. I may forget how to do it but I can start again. I write with hopes that these words won’t come empty – as always have been the case for the past few times.
Tell a story. Keep writing.
Photo not mine. Thank you Google search. Heh.