till death do us part

I fell in love with poetry the day I read Love: Poems by Danielle Steel. Every word intrigued me, it was like a gift that kept on giving. I still remember how differently I saw the english language through her words…how beautiful she made it seem. It was art. Every word was a colour in a painter’s palette, every comma, full stop and exclamation mark a piece of a picture puzzle waiting to be put together. She painted pictures with her words that my thirteen year old mind couldn’t fully comprehend… And yet I still remember how excited I felt at the thought that one day I’d feel every single emotion in those pages. One day, that would be my story. I knew then that my thirteen year old feelings of pain and sorrow and love were only a fraction of the real thing. I wanted to grow into the woman she wrote about. I wanted to feel every emotion she described so that I too could be able to paint a picture so beautiful out of love and pain and sorrow and foolishness… I wanted every pained soul to feel what I felt when I read that book. It touched a part of me all those years ago. A part I still haven’t fully reconnected with, save for that once or twice when the voices within aren’t ignoring me. You see I lost myself along the way. I gave up on the mission and joined the cowardly masses in shunning emotions. I haven’t found that book again but bits and pieces are still engraved in my memory. Today I realised how close I came to failing my thirteen year old self. I remembered the tears she shed as she flipped through the pages; vivid portraits of love and pain and hurt and betrayal all painted in her mind’s eye with words so ripe with emotion. I saw hurt and pain in a different light. Never had I imagined pain to be so beautiful, so rich; overflowing with emotion, empowering and most of all, inspiring. I was converted to the religion that was emotion. I wasn’t going to hold back. I was going to soar to the very height of my emotional threshold. I was going to feel every emotion known to man and I was going to write words so beautiful, paint pictures so vivid that if thirteen year old me flipped through my pages, she’d be inspired to do it all again. And so I loved with all my heart, nurtured to the best of my ability and gave the best of me to the objects of my affection. I got up when the pain kicked in and I kept going…again and again and again. Only I went slower with each blow until eventually, without even realising it, I was lying in an emotional coma, hanging on for dear life, loving with only fractions of my being because that’s all I could afford to give. They were winning. I was bottling my pain, locking it up-going on like it didn’t exist. I wasn’t painting beautiful pictures with my words. In fact, I was losing my voice. The voices within weren’t talking to me anymore. They resented the un feeling coward I was becoming. I was letting them win and letting me down in the process. To feel is to be human. To connect with your inner self, to channel your emotion and create something out of it is an art. Self-expression is beauty. Pain is normal. My physics is so bad that I almost forgot that energy cannot be destroyed but merely transferred or transformed from one form to another. In short, if I didn’t start releasing the negative energy again, one day I just might explode from too much of it. What better way than to reconnect with my inner writer and transform that energy into a picture puzzle of words?
Thank you thirteen year old self! I needed the reality check.


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