The trajectory of my path was convoluted at my birth, and the road whirled into a knotted yarn of working progress. Never knew why I was meant to be treated as an object of derision but the past haunted like a gravedigger's nightly shift. The thoughts left me still, silenced, speechless and wounded my mind into the deep valleys.
i wrote it out, because it was the only way out of the mindless overthinking. Too ambitious for a minute's reflection, but the opportunity lost that I endured felt too great to bear as the present. I became the past with my regrets and pained from the loss of love and dreams of a happily ever after.
The struggles I felt at five to forty-four felt endless. I kept count of the good times, as I wrote them out for myself to remember. It was all about writing my life out on paper or typing the languages of my heart into a working progress.
Sometimes I wished I never knew how to write or read because I was called since I was young but the world hated me for it. Was I the working progress meant to end early in my days? Or was I meant to endure pain so great just to be forced to rejection? My world felt negative at this moment because I felt my writing was the burden of my life all along, or was it my gift and saving grace.
I couldn't escape the arduous road of my life, even when I thought I gave it my all. But, even through the negative, I couldn't escape my own words transferring onto these pages as my expression, my release, my solace, and my hope. Perhaps, I was meant to write after all, just because I was born for it.