I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with language. I remember that I started journaling in an attempt to create beautiful sentences like the ones I read in books. I remember seeing my writing evolve, putting so much thought into the next word just so that I could create the same feelings authors conveyed to their readers; to me. I remember reading back what I wrote and feeling so proud that I was getting closer. I fell into the world of writing in this way and I haven’t been able to leave.

I think I will always describe my experience as an attempt to escape the dysfunctional family in which I was raised in. They were dark times, and that is what eventually led me to journaling. I needed a venue to express the sentiments that otherwise remained bottled, simply because voicing my thoughts would mean that someone would get hurt. Language allowed my voice to be heard, even if the person on the other side was my inner self.

Writing holds a special place in my heart. I like to think that I’ve been doing it for years but I haven’t. I’ve been loving it for years, but I haven’t been writing for years. Everytime I think about it, it upsets me. Is it fair to call myself a writer when the last time I wrote for my pleasure was two years ago? It hurts to admit that I have thought of abandoning writing altogether. My lack of motivation has been an excuse for me to not write. I always say I need inspiration, but my peers always say that a writer can get inspiration from anywhere. Although I am not being entirely honest, I have ideas, scenes, plots in my head that I have planned out. Even so, I have trouble sitting down and actually writing.

I like to think that my love for writing was fate. How else would you explain a girl with no skills whatsoever obtaining a skill through writing? The only one who has the power to “fulfill” my fate is me but what do I do when I can’t? When I cannot mentally sit down and concentrate? When I say that writing is my passion but I have nothing to show for it? There is something admirable about the people who follow their passion, who do everything and give everything for what they believe in. Writing was my passion, I am not sure it still is.

A mentor of mine always asks, “Why do you want to be a writer?” And always my answer is, “I don’t know." I have tried abandoning it, but it follows me everywhere. I cannot abandon the first love of my life. I truly believe it’s a calling of mine and I have to adhere to it. There is a journey I must follow but I cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel. What I see is not the light, but what’s after the light; an attempt to regain part of myself back.

I have faith that I will come to senses sooner or later. The guilt I feel for not taking advantage of the passion I once had haunts me. Then again, so does the desire to tell my stories and be heard and be admired by others. I suppose you can say my relationship with writing is a rocky one, but one thing is for sure: without language, without literature, without writing, I am nothing.