Kathang Isip

Writer's Thoughts

Writing has always been her plane ticket to escape– to escape from the afflicting reality, to escape from everything.

She admits writing isn't the only option to get away from where she is right now, but it is, indeed the easiest way. She's the kind of person who loathes confrontation and she hates answering questions wherein the answers are all evident as if she's asked if she's okay but obviously, she's not.

Writing became her everything not just only her escape route, but it's her mechanism to breathe freely, to express without hesitation and it helps her to keep her sanity. In Writing, her pen became her mouth and her hands became her tongue.

As the ink bled through the pages along with the pieces of her shattered soul, she allows every piercing eyes to arbitrate her creation. Euphoric and ecstatic, she felt after writing her soul down to a piece of paper.

Writing is her way of confrontation and her way of answering questions. She considered it as her happy pill, she just never thought she will regret it in the end. The feeling of being in euphoria banished and what's left in her is melancholia.

She regretted that she spilled the ink of her soul, she regretted leaving pieces of her in every poetry she made, she regretted writing–she regret it all.

She stopped, she couldn't breathe because of the lump in her throat, she couldn't express herself, she's too terrified, she has no choice but to keep it inside, she couldn't keep her sanity, over-thinking and confusing thoughts invade her almost leading her to insanity, then her insecurity follows along with her anxiety.

Without writing, she has nothing, she has nothing to hold on to, she has no one to share her thoughts with, she has nothing but herself–she has to keep everything in herself.

She became lonely and lifeless, she always wears her invisible mask, smiling like nothing's going on within her. She became a great pretender, she became a mess– a mess from a grotesque destruction.