Writing Blog
HealingInk
At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries, and eases the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self made prescription, wipe up the tears, and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
Here, everything spills into three quiet corners. A love of lines, where I collect words written by others that feel like they were somehow meant for me too. Diary entries, where life is kept as it is, unfiltered, unpolished, just lived. And creative writings, where I try to turn what is inside into something I can finally look at without it burning.
Welcome
English is not my first language. It is the language I used to alienate others. Now, it embodies my thoughts and feelings. Reading what I once wrote calms me down. By sharing my writings with you, I hope you find a similar quiet in it, or simply a shared, flawed sense of what it means to be human.
Writing compels us to think about the meanings of things we often assume are givens.
Estela Mara Bensimon
