As a kid, I’ve had some big dreams. Big goals, big steps to take, and to break the glass ceiling at a time I didn’t even know what that meant. As I grew older, I was so passionate about everything that I did, from writing, to reading to enjoying those tiny little things in life. I was always out of my comfort zone, doing what my heart said, and didn’t back out from a lot of things that I should have thought a hundred times over. I wanted to do so many things and create beautiful memories along the ride. I was care-free, happy, and all I ever wanted to do was to write. Write about a lot of things, write about what I wanted to, write as if there’s no tomorrow, until a time, I can’t write anymore.

I started to write from I don’t know when, my parents don’t have an idea either. They encouraged me as I felt I had so much to express, so much to say. They were always there, at every inch of my writing journey, to appreciate me, to provide me with honest criticisms, to the extent that I used to torture them to read my short stories after a whole day of tiring work, and they just wanted to sleep. They stood by me, pushing me to write more, and express my thoughts. When I was just in my third or fourth standard, I had an English teacher substituting for a teacher who wasn’t present that day. That day was the first time I ever had someone who wasn’t family to read what I wrote. I had written an article on who was my role model, and who I wanted to become. At that age, I had written on how I wanted to become the President, and that Barack Obama was my role model. I had heard a lot about him from my dad, and in that age, I wrote about racism shouldn’t be judged upon and color isn’t to be frowned upon. The words, I don’t remember now filled up two entire pages of my notebook, got stuck to the wall at the entrance of the classroom. It was an achievement for me to have it there for a whole year, for all the patient eyes to read it. I was so proud. I started writing more, and more as years passed.

Short stories, articles for the school magazine, poems, starting my own blog, you name it and I have done it. As I grew, my passion for writing grew. But when studies had to take a priority, I had no option than to have my passion take the back seat. Wherever there was an opportunity to write, I grabbed it. But the more and more I wrote, the more and more I got the feeling that people weren’t reading it. I felt nobody has that kind of patience to read someone’s article or blog these days. When I let that kind of thought into my mind, while the passion stayed, I slowly and slowly shut it down. The sense of burning desire inside me always wanted to sit for an hour and write what I wanted to, not caring if someone read it or not. Write for myself, and not for anybody else.

As far as a person I grew up to be, writing was the only hold that I had. I couldn’t let anyone get close to me for quite some time, and I was not willing to get attached to emotions. I stayed silent, and I wrote, wrote and only wrote, when I did not have anyone to pour my thoughts to. Thanks to the people who made me realize that when people don’t stay and can walk away, I can always choose to write. For I felt that writing was running in my blood, a part of who I am. Whenever I felt lonely, whenever I couldn’t sleep at night, whenever my thoughts were running wild, I sat down to put those thoughts into words in a notepad. When someone asks me how I have the patience to write long paragraphs just to explain someone how much I like them or how much they mean to me, well, there’s no shortage of words to appreciate the person they are. At times, I write so much, that no eyes can ever read except mine, lying in a corner waiting to bring back those memories and thoughts.

The more I think in this silent environment, amongst the trees slowly dripping the droplets of rain that they carefully preserved, and the birds happily chirping and flying around, all I can ever wonder if to write is the right thing for my life. Will I be happy working a 10 to 6 job? Will I ever be satisfied with the numbers popping up my screen, going on reviews, listening to people discuss taxes and money? Will I ever get the time to sit and listen to experiences, and writing whenever I want to? Will I ever regret choosing a different path? Will I end up just like a one among in the crowd in this racing world? Or will I break down, realizing everything I have done so far was not worth anything, and I have wasted every moment keeping someone happy, but not myself?