Threads of Connection: Part 1, Words

I have always said writing makes me feel alive. In this fast-paced world, it’s easy to feel like you are missing out or that you are never really there. In that chaos, writing gives me a place of my own, a world where I can sit, breathe, and exist. It’s an escape. An escape from the fear of failing, the fear of falling behind. The real world asks you to constantly change, to mold yourself so you fit. But in writing, I create a world where even the air that blows seems to know my name, and the leaf that crumbles whispers it back. That feels like home.

My dear Irashu, she has always pushed me to understand myself even better. She sits with me in the real world and pushes me to create a world of mine. She asks me questions that not just make me think about the world but also about myself. She helped me build the world that makes me feel sufficient. Yesterday she suggested something. She told me to write about relationships. Nah, not the literal one, but my relationship with the world. Maybe, hey, something as simple as my connection with the sun and the moon that I write every other day? My quiet connection with the bookstore I never entered but often passed, glancing at its shelves from outside, searching for something I couldn’t name. In her spirit, today, I write about my relationship with words.

Well, a common thing for someone who writes is to explain their relationship with writing, and maybe I have done this so many times. Not intentionally, but subconsciously. But this specific one is something that I can reflect on, too. It’s also for me to understand how this helps me. Well, my writing journey began when I was a kid,  the type of kid who would actually fill up the page so quick when the question paper asked you to write a letter to your friend.  The kind of student who looked at an essay topic and immediately felt words waiting to be let out. Slowly, it became a way for me to express my opinions, and it shifted from answer papers to small diaries. I would write what made me feel good that day, and in no time, writing became the one thing that made me feel heard and hidden at the same time.

I then started writing poems too. Being poetic with words felt like opening a new door. I fell in love with metaphors, how they carry layers, how they allow every reader to become an author of their own meaning. That’s what amazes me most, when you write, the words don’t belong to you anymore. Every reader interprets them through the lens of their own experiences, creating something uniquely theirs. A piece of writing becomes a home when it meets the reader, because they bring themselves into it.

Doesn’t matter if your mode of expression is writing or not; when you read a piece of an article, the idea that comes to your mind is unique. It comes with the experiences that you lived with. You interpret it the way you find it comfortable. You understand what you want to understand. I have always believed that with writing, it doesn’t have to be for any specific audience. When I say writings, I am not talking about any newsletter, but simply writings that make you think and reflect. And that’s why, for me, writing feels safe. Makes me feel like an individual of her own. Makes me create a world where even the pebbles recognize me. It’s filled with all those subconscious and conscious dreams of mine which are yet to be lived, and maybe some that just couldn't happen in real life, but the memory still is there, reminding me it actually got real somewhere in the world, doesn’t matter created by the universe or me myself.

I want to start this as a series named "Thread of Connections". Today I wrote about me and my writings. I wish to write more on some other topics. Maybe something as nerdy as the education system? And something as simple as the park behind Butler Hall.

See ya!