As early as I can remember I had always wanted to write. But I always had this uneasy way that I was not good enough. I wrote stories during primary school. The imagination was so real, I found myself within the story. During High School I became a little braver
by giving my form teacher a few pages I had written in one of my exercise books. After he with edited, I would find out there were so many grammatical errors, I felt ashamed. After some time I felt that maybe this wasn’t my thing and entering the exam time I quit all together.
Over the years I pursued other fields but many of those fields consisted of writing and I was always called a upon to write, be it for a group, individuals or my innermost thoughts that I was unable to express to others. So there I was, back to square one. Writing it out because if I had not and do not, I think I would die. My writings sometimes explode onto pages with tears and ink. Hands shaking as the emotions run their course. The release usually ends in more tears. Call me a cry baby, but darlings, when it aches, nothing takes away the feeling for some time until you cry your heart out. I do not know why…do you?