I want to write.

I stare at a blank page contemplating how to precisely describe my feelings. I keep on putting down the Pen or just switching back to mindlessly scrolling down my Instagram feed…

I want to write about every truth I desperately want to hold on to, every experience I read somewhere and want to be apart of.

I want to write about magic, about love, about fables, about what lies between what the eye can see and the mind can fathom.

I want to write and live extensively on every emotion – known and unknown.

I want to write about the unprintable, the taboo questions that keeps my soul awake at night, the confusion that has now become part my existence.

I want to write about every inch of my life, then tear it apart and look for the inches invisible to the eyes then write it out and continue writing about every angle I come in contact with, until– until my existence ceases to exist.

I want to write, but a big part of me is afraid to disrupt the normality of this world, a part of me is afraid to stand alone in unknown territories risking all I have known and held dear.

A part of me is scared that this is self obsession.

I want to write it, I really want to. But am I ready to ask the questions needed to be asked? Am I ready to take the journey – to brave the wilderness alone without a map or a guide?

Most importantly am I ready to face the critics that don’t want to accept the truth. My truth?

Am I ready to speak the truth to normalcy?

I want to write.