You may wonder what inspired me to read and write. Well, it seems all hazy when I rack my brains. I do have a vague picture in mind, though: I was only seven years old. Just like any child my age, I too had a dream. I started writing songs, which may or may not have made any sense. But to me, they made a lot of sense at the time. In fact, they are something I still cherish.
I then transitioned to writing poems and short stories. You see, I am a dreamer. Random thoughts in my head would take shape as stories. In fact, this was what what prompted my grandma to get me a writing pad so I could keep penning those stories and poems. My family – especially my parents – have been ever so supportive from the outset, and that is what motivated me to keep going.
Even so, I gave this hobby a break for a few years as I started reading books. As a hardcore bookworm, my mother would recommend me new books. On the other hand, I was an adamant girl who got rather picky about her books. Honestly, I was never into reading to begin with, but it felt nice once I started. It was like escaping to an unknown realm for some time, a realm where nothing but me and those characters existed. Some books even took this experience to a different level altogether – I could actually feel everything that the characters must have been experiencing. The feeling was so surreal, so beautiful that words fall short of describing it.
Fast-forward to the time when I was in eighth grade, when everything seemed different. My life felt like it was falling apart, and I knew I needed to get my act together. The question was how. No, it was definitely not easy for me. I kept trying to fit in, pretending that the rejections did not hurt, even when they did.
All the teachers kept telling me that my essays were not good enough, that they were devoid of a proper form or structure. However, I did not give up. I simply kept at it, even when the appreciation from my teachers seemed increasingly elusive. A part of me felt upset and angry; I was frustrated at the fact that my most sincere efforts were proving insufficient. However, there was another part of me, one that kept telling me that I was not good enough. It was the side of my psyche that made me feel useless.
I just had to do something about this. And that is when I started writing poems again. So many thoughts bottled up inside started gushing out as one poem after another. It was like a silky river of honey, which kept flowing down my mind to my hand, to find its way out of my pen onto pieces of paper. Poetry really brought the best out of me; it made me feel good about myself.
As my friends started turning against me, life seemed to have taken another turn for the worse. This inspired me to write short articles about mental health. This worked like a charm, as I began gaining in confidence. Suddenly, everything seemed possible. My poems started getting better, and so did my writing skills.
Probably the biggest takeaway from my story is that when someone tries to pull you down, just don’t let them drag you further down. Try to get back up and become a better, stronger version of yourself.
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