It’s Sunday evening. Feeling restless. The typical Sunday blue kicking in. My loved one has just left town. This added more to the uneasiness that anyway sinks in every Sunday.
It is weird how my mood switches from being thankful this morning to dreading the night that will bring forth a new week. I went for my evening walk in the small neighbourhood park. Calling it a park is an exaggeration, it is a track surrounding a small pond across my apartment. Paused to soak in the full moon shining proudly across the grey sky polluted by the nigh lights. I feel an itch to write. No idea what to write but there is a nagging feeling for me to just write, to let the words flow. I love words. I have also loved how words stir my emotions, trigger my imagination and accompany me through many lonely moments.
My son said perhaps I am lonely. Am I? I had never thought myself as lonely. After all I grew up surrounded by a family full of kids and rarely has a moment of privacy. But I have also kept things to myself. I love to write as a kid. I used to write diary until my mom told me that it is not safe to pour my thoughts on paper as other people could read them and hold them against me. I love to write letters, to see my words on the writing pad and to seal them and send them in anticipation of a returning letter that will acknowledge what I had written. Perhaps I was yearning to be heard, to be understood. I do not consider myself lonely as often I choose to be alone. I do not avoid social activities but I definitely do not make the effort to chase for the thrill of the high life. My ideal Sunday is today – basking in the lazy morning sun, catching up on news in my iPad with my loved one next to me. This followed by family lunch in a casual cafe not far from where we are, enjoying each other over a simple meal and small talk.
Perhaps the feeling of loneliness is the fire that drives my writing. After all, I hardly ever write when I am busy or engrossed in the hustle and bustle of life. I seem to feel the urge to write when I have a need to express how I feel, when I listen to myself and hear myself screaming to be heard.
For some, words are meaningless
For others, they are means of communication
For me, words are magical
They make me smile, they make me cry
They talk to me, they keep me company
In the darkest moments, they keep me alive
At the passing of the dark clouds, they give me hope
With the turn of every page, words transport me across time and boundaries