Me.My writing.My life.

You know how, one day you suddenly have this drive to write? To write it all down. Your grudges, fears, nightmares, worries? You probably don’t. It is kind of like a writer’s thing. Personally, For me it has been quite a while. Maybe because there was so much going on, so much to do, so much to forget, so many people to forgive. Now, out of the blue, I want to write again. Not  a diary. Because I don’t really need that, I already have one. I have no idea what inspired this sudden urge to write. All I know, is that it felt right. So, heck! Why not give it a try, right?

The reason I don’t want to keep just a diary anymore is because maybe it’s not enough. And then, there is also the fact that my diary is a complete and utter mess. Even if someone does find it someday and try to read it, I can bet that they will not get a single word. It has been written in the most foolish, sentimental and disastrous manner ever! Apart from that. The thing is… “My hand writing. It is horrible. I know that, my best friend knows that, my family knows that and most of all… My poor teachers know that.” After all, They’re the ones who have to deal with it at the end of the day.  I admit though. An empty piece of paper and a pen inspires me more to write than a word pad document.

The first thing I ever wrote, was one of my silly, childish little short stories. It was way back, I was probably nine or ten. When I grew a little older, I realised how completely useless and stupid all of them were. I managed to  successfully tear them all up and  throw them out in the garbage  before anyone ( especially one of my four annoying sisters ) got their hands on the content. So, again. It has been a while. Any ways. That thing I said about my sisters? Not true. At all. They are one of the reasons my early years were so awesome. I love them all a lot. I don’t really say it out loud very often. But I do. Also. My parents are wonderful. Especially my dad. He always encouraged me to write my heart out or at least keep a diary. He is one of the reasons I started writing. My mother contributed to my love of books. I love her for the feeling I get when I pick up a good book. She regrets it a little though. That is, when it starts to affect my studies. But, The feeling is priceless. They. My parents are priceless.

I think this is enough though.For now. I hope I get a chance to write again soon. Cheers.