Well... nothing memorable happened today.
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Somewhere in my brain, I thought that if I started writing again, I would find joy in the little things and the beauty in the moments that would slip away from your mind like a raindrop from a leaf. But no. I just remembered that I used to love writing. Probably for the wrong reasons. I loved writing because it was one-sided, selfish, and irresponsible. Well, at least that’s the way I wrote.
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In school, I wasn’t good at expressing myself verbally. So naturally, I would choose writing as my main form of expression whenever I got the chance. The funny part was that many teachers didn’t believe that I wrote those words. They believed that I was cheating or had someone else writing my essays for me until I had written tests where I could prove myself somehow. That’s when I learned how cruel and convenient written words can be. I could claim anything and nothing with it. It’s easy for me to say now (and surprisingly easy for someone else to say) that those teachers were in the wrong for suspecting me, but that’s not where my mind went to when I was a kid. I still get scared every time AI is mentioned, because what if my thoughts, formulations and word choices weren’t really mine? If someone were to claim them, I would surrender. They are practically meaningless to anyone but me. I don’t necessarily write for it to be read. I write to write. Basically, I just write for me. Once the words are lined up on the paper, it’s not mine anymore...
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Then why don’t I just throw them away? Delete them? I do do that sometimes. And to those stories where I don’t, well... somewhere in my heart, I wish to claim them. Even if nobody will read them but me, I wish for them to stay. To say that they did exist. They were mine at some point, written to be read and understood by someone. Yes, my written words are always two-faced, lifeless and unconscientious. But they could still be loved by me. 18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnQpIYfR1QQ
That’s what I loved about them.
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