There is something about someone making an effort to gift you with something then you finding out hours later because life. Well, I found out earlier today that I won 100 POB thanks to a soul just looking to encourage people to write and probably writers to polish whatever magic their pens have.
For most writers, writing is just like a second language. They wield fluency just like they would a shield and they are the ones blocking the writers block. Reading for them in art and for this alone, they possess they power of tucking away crazy vocab all over their pieces.
But.
For some of us, writing is demanding and tedious most of the time. It involves digging into dark spaces and painful memories. It is wrapped around the exploration and untangling emotional chaos in a personalised reflective way.
Inspiration is scarce and life won't let me go hunting. To find me, it might haunt me as I sleep as some recurring nightmare. It might be a beautiful daydream. It might be triggered by the present or the past. Whichever form it chooses to inhabit me in, writing probes on my wounds like skilled surgeons and taps in my indescribable desires and wild passion.
Those who read my work are the unfortunate souls who get to keep up with the unpredictable sensitive tides that wash in based on where my ink is drawn.
Most of my pieces are gothic and emotionally disturbing. Dark pieces reign as I tend to lean there too often. Romanticized content is the only way I can dilute the melancholy associated with my other pieces without struggling hence the occassional dip in the forbidden hive for a taste of my unquenched longings.
Here is where it becomes a balm and healing begins. It is only through scribing that I have stripped naked in public to poke on my own wounds and still managed to walk away with my pride intact.
I get frustrated when I am in a place where I can't express myself. The continuous birth of words within me overwhelms my overthinking mind when some can't find a way out. When I am lost inside my head, everything gets foggy and I can't channel anything of value.
Then comes the panic attack before hitting the publishing button after I have fled some of the flooding words. Self doubt still envelopes my writer with the if what I have created is worthy of anyone's read. The undiagnosed paranoia might take over right after me sharing or after a while. It can't be helped.
Yet.
When poetry takes over I give in and let her rule me. Words spew from unceasing fountains and stanzas flow through my veins like blood. It is also here where profound reflective pieces sprout and surprisingly find home in other beings. I then become half the writer I claim to be and for once, I get to wield the magic that is writing!
wambuku w.