I believe that writing has a healing power. Writing can intertwine reality and fiction into one majestic string that holds together the pieces of sanity.
Without writing, I would be an emotional dead-end. It gives me hope that everything will be okay.
Writing is not just putting pen to paper and beginning to write. Writing allows me to say what I truly believe and not being afraid that someone will judge me for voicing my opinion.
Almost three summers ago my Grandma Georgene died, proving to be the one most horrific event in my life. I was consumed with sorrow, but unlike most people, I did not cry. I wrote..
A year and a half later, in seventh grade, my English teacher Mrs. Weihe announced that we would be writing a poem. We were to write of someone who meant the world to us. I decided to write the poem about my grandmother. It was a sad poem, but like most sorrowful works of literature it was true. The assignment helped me deal with the lingering emotions inside me. I still have feelings about my grandmother’s untimely death, but they are joyous because I know she is in a better place that this melodramatic world.
Writing cannot completely heal the wound of a loved one, but it can patch the ever lasting ache left behind. I had to put my whole self into retrieving my heartrending emotions. In the end, writing served as an aid, a regal aid. Writing allows me to tell not what I believe, but, rather to communicate the feelings that are universal to everyone.
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