what made you a writer?

what made you a writer?

was it the pain you didn’t know where to spill before the jar you hid it in, cracked,

or was it the weight of the surroundings you carried on your fragile shoulders for far too long that it turned traitor against you and started to push you down?

was it the promises and expectations of those near that you wished to abandon,

or was it your own apprehensions about yourself that seemed too stifling, collecting up but never fulfilling, making you weary?

was it the freedom that you so wanted to be written in your inheritance

or was it the past you wished to prison onto paper?

was it the usual culprit, heartbreak, like all writers have,

or was it in the process of mending the heart that you found words like packets of oxygen?

was it the love you feared to be too much for your little heart to carry,

or was it your sheer existence you wished to tear apart from?

was it simply your boundless emotions suffocating you, yearning, waiting to be employed into some place, someone,

or was it you, your name, your identity, yourself, that you grew tired of and ultimately needed to escape to the worlds of paper and words?

was it the tireless, ceaseless, fruitless wait of someone to come along and collect all the shards of you, those pieces of glass broken down, dispersed on the ground for as long as you can remember, no matter how sharp, no matter how deep the cuts they form

to make sense of you,

to understand you,

your feelings,

your past

or

was it the wait for you,

the call to yourself,

to come back home

and make you whole again?

—

what made you a writer?