Some people have a problem with the fact that I blog, and believe I do it simply because I have nothing better to do, for attention, and to copy others. Truthfully, they couldn’t be any further from the truth. I have my reasons for my writing, and I always will.
I write first and for most, because I love it. Writing helps me discover who I am. The letters and words pile out of me before I can even comprehend them. Through writing, I not only learn about myself, but about those around me. My mind is not quite a peaceful place I can escape, so I indulge in sharing it with ink and paper, and routinely, you.
When I write, I feel closer to my mother. I feel her, even right now, curled up beside me. Writing was always her safe haven, as it is mine. I write to revive her soul and to have it with me again, as well as those her loved her dearly. She was my entire world, and there will never be another human being to walk this earth that will ever mean half as much as she did to me. So when I find something that brings her back to me, I will so anything and everything in my power to do it.
I have spent my entire life being judged, but who hasn’t? My life has been analyzed and ridiculed for every aspect, over and over again. People would tell me my mom only had cancer because I wanted attention, and first of all, how does that even make any sense at all? She birthed me, and I have to control over her illness. Second of all, the only people I would even tell would be my very closest friends, which certainly isn’t an entire school. People judged me for literally everything the could find. It was because I was different. It was because I didn’t belittle people, I wasn’t the kind of person bully others to make myself feel better, I wasn’t obsessed with my ego and image. I was the kind of person to stick up for others, to fight for what she believed in. I was the kind of person who made it their goal to make at least one persons day better. I was the kind of person who wasn’t friends with the “popular” kids, but instead the most loyal, trustworthy, wonderful, understanding, powerful, brave, hilarious, spontaneous, and open people you would ever come across. And because of that, people indulged their lives to breaking mine.
I found my happy place on a pale green, Victorian style desk, with nothing but a spiral notebook and a broken pencil. When I was writing, nobody could judge me. I was free to express myself, to be who I truly was. I didn’t have to hide anymore. I could simply sit in my chair, and let my mind bleed through the ink of the pen.
So no, I do not write for those petty reasons. I write because my soul craves for it. It is a part of who I am, and who I always want to be. I write because I have to. Literature is what I have always wanted to pursue, and nobody can stop me. I promised my mother I would change the world for her, and there is nothing you could ever do to convince me to do her an injustice.
Porcelain Prose 