They reside in the darkest corners of my refuge, dusty, aged, and often forgotten. They have the strongest of auras pulling me in every once in a while and I visit. My writings are my truest mirrors, providing me with the honest truth, a truth that even I sometimes forget.
They are unseen by others eyes, unheard of even to those willing to listen, and their contents are a mystery to those who presume to know me. They are more than words that form a sentence, more than just patterns on a sheet of paper: they are my true voice, my soul, my passion. When everything seems impossible, it is them that I turn to.
To me, writing was to be done only when the teacher assigned one of the five- paragraph formatted scripts. I never knew of the beauty writing contained until I entered high school and was preparing for the SAT’s. I drove myself crazy thinking about topic sentences, and transition sentences; the result was a very stiff and formal passage. Upon reading one of my essays my 9th grade teacher informed me that writing didn’t always have to be in a specific format. After all, writers like Emily Dickinson, and Edgar Allen Poe didn’t rely on a writing formula to create their masterpieces.
The revolution began shortly after that. I began noticing the differences in each style of writing, the way the words formed an image to create a message, the way the author wove them like silk to create perfection and I was spellbound. I began to write on my own after a while. I wrote when I was lonely, and when I was sad, I wrote when I was in love and when I wanted to hate. I wrote when my world was turning upside down and I no longer had a say in fate’s plan. When everything was changing only writing stayed the same. In writing I found my voice and my self; I noticed that I wasn’t the same on paper than I was in reality. I believe in my writing because it has never lied to me. I pour my soul into paper, and have written things I am too afraid to speak of, things that I am too embarrassed to mention, and too ashamed to say aloud.
As my school days pass, and I mature, my writing evolves once again. I was always told that my mind was not like others, that I saw and thought of things way differently than the rest. In a search for my identity I have taken my unique mind, no matter how weird it may seem to others, as my strength. During my sophomore year in high school while I was lying bored in bed I wrote a novel. As with many stories, it is about a girl and a boy but unlike others it is inscribed with my voice and my being. It is a fantasy story with all the lessons, of love, hate, and sacrifice. My writing is a portal: it transports me both to the past and to the future. I believe in my writing because it is an open book that tells others of the innocence of my youth, of all the things I have learned in my eighteen years, and of all the things I hope to learn and gain as I grow old.
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