I write because some words that cannot be spoken nevertheless need a voice. In class 7, “The Diary of a Young Girl” inspired me to begin writing in a diary of my own. At 12 years of age, I started scribbling my mundane stories everyday. In my stories, the teachers were monsters who deducted marks and Math was a blood sucking mosquito. My friendships were undoubtedly unbreakable.
From love poems to heartbreaks, from redemption to self-love, I have written down everything I have felt strongly about. These diaries became photographs of the emotions I had felt across different moments.
Words are effective and immensely powerful. They can be used for signing a peace treaty or to raise hell. Writing gives a voice to those stories that have remained unheard. I decided to write because my thoughts were too fast and my tongue a little too tied.
People write when they are choking on their own tears, when they stammer, they stutter, when they felt their world come crashing down, when their voices have been too fragile to bear the weight of their words. Our stories, our words, have the kind of longevity that we do not.
I write because I know that people are robbed of their voices, I know that there are stories which have been shunned aside, I know that there are questions that were once asked and have now been silenced. I know that there are important narratives dissolving in the background. I write because my writing has a longer shelf life than my own.