I started writing after my grandfather passed away. I was ten years old and despite being quite young, I was very much aware of the fact that life can happen to you and whether or not you are able to receive what it doles out has very little to do with its justifications.
Poetry was my sounding board and blissful escape. I still remember how my heart pounded with fury as my hands gripped the pencil, and the pages began to swell with my thoughts. I had a lot to say and I knew exactly how to say it without compromising the unit that housed my vulnerability.
They say pain is a healer. It is also the catalyst for miraculous sightings that are spurned from forced enlightenment. The ability to primally own your static emotions without releasing your grip, regardless of how much of the outside world you’ve plotted — is all the assurance we need when pondering the weight of our spirit.
There is no doubt that almost thirty-two years ago — I was unknowingly catapulted into a destiny that was strewn from the shreds of guilt and shame that stemmed from an episode in my childhood that changed me forever. I have often wondered if I would’ve been encouraged to develop my affinity for words had I not been forced to curate an escape route — that has presently become my coat of arms.
