Some poetries from the book
I wanted to write to let go and create what was happening in my head.
I am not a writer, I do not have a name in this field, and I often do not even know if what I create is good. I do not know if it is only something I enjoy or if it could matter to anyone else, yet I want to share this passion so that it can become a part of the reader as well.
You know... sometimes, I hate what I write and I wonder, do I hate myself too? :/
Sometimes I think maybe I should keep it all to myself, but would that not mean hiding, disappearing into a shadow of who I am?
I do not know. Who am I to decide what is good writing or what is worth sharing? Are my thoughts even relevant in a world filled with the realities of others?
Would sharing it with others make me seem too open, as if I am flaunting my opinions or pretending to know everything, as if I were selfish in doing so?
I struggle because I am not even sure what my own reality truly is. I am uncertain, fragile, searching for meaning in the words I put on paper, hoping that someone, somewhere, might feel even a fraction of what I feel.
And yet, the fear remains...fear that it is meaningless, fear that it is too small, too insignificant.
Still, I write because it is the only way I know to reach out, to touch, to feel, to exist and rearrange my soul and brain. Even in doubt, even in confusion, there is honesty in the act itself, a rawness that cannot be faked. Perhaps that is enough..for now :)
I love to create because it means to me, to be human, to put my creativity into something visual, to be seen, even when I am unsure if it is worthy, beautiful or if anyone will ever truly notice.
