Rida Fatima Virk

I never held writing in high regard at an early age but during a point in life it became a need. A way to breath. A way to survive. Something that was ready to burst the moment I turned the faucet on.

My pre-teen years were rockier than most and more stable than some. During these years the dark demons of insanity that lay within me had begun pulling me down towards them. The whispers of comfort they uttered encouraged listlessness and detachment from all that sparkled with great zest. They washed everything in sight in dull colours and every task was extremely tedious. The only tasks of lying still and sleeping for hours on end was deemed acceptable.

Writing graced me with its presence in the form of an idea that floated in my mind and pushed me to rest my fingers on my keyboard. I started typing typing typing. My lips stretched into a massive grin from the joy I felt from letting it all loose without a care in the world. The amazement of not knowing when I’ll stop writing as if I had let a tap open with full force. Whenever a gap comes in writing I revisit that abyss once more.

Why I begun writing and still write is to save myself from the demons of insanity that are always ready to pounce when the slightest of weakness is shown. However, that is not the only reason for why I still write. Once it comes flooding out, it can never be fully stopped. Many try to abandon it for the sake of practicality but an intense passion will always remain so and will call for memories that remind you of its inception. If it cannot go down the straight path then it will find a way to zig-zag around any and all obstacles until the very end because nothing is more torturous than the act of not writing.

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