I am participating in the Writing Contest: How Writing Has Positively Influenced My Life. Hosted by Positive Writer

Link to Contest

Writing is a form of expression, used to relieve any tension in the dimensions of our mind. It is used to bind the intertwined wires we hopelessly try to unwind. Writing is that which we cannot define. It is the words and thoughts we try to combine to complete the circuit we try to design. But writing is so much more. It is every belief we think we stand for. It is every key to each bolted door. Writing is peace, but writing is not sane. Writing is truce, but writing is disdain. Writing is the pain that flows through our veins; it is the hope that stains the feelings we cannot restrain. Writing is the release of any demons we hold, but writing can mutate our thoughts into rubble or gold. There’s more to writing than what you might think. Writing is self-expression because it gives you a voice, and it’s also therapeutic because it acts as an emotional outlet. That’s why I believe that writing is a powerful form of personal and artistic expression.

First off, writing can give you a voice loud enough to reach millions, if that’s what you intend. It can act as a worldwide source of communication, and as a way to exercise your freedom of speech. Writing in hopes of communicating a message that you deem important can be about any topic that essentially moves you, like hunger, poverty, corruption or the tragedy of war. Writing is a way of sharing the thoughts that circle your mind. See, now if I had a chance to say something to a million people willing to listen, I would say that I’m living in a paradigm of your own perception, a world of your making, full of lies and deception. I would say that I am in a reality that is not my own, I’m living in the matrix; the only world I’ve ever known. I would say that we’re slaves here, handcuffed to the locks, they tell us we’re free but we all know we’re not. We’re slaves to the money, take orders from the cash, we’re forever loyal, until the wealth just turns to ash. I would say that we’re addicted to a need that will wither away, it’s embedded in our bodies, it runs through our veins. I would say that we’re living in a castle built with fire and sand, but expecting the flames to not burn through the land. See? Writing gives you a voice like no other. Whether you’re talking about corruption, like I just did, or you’re talking about hunger, war, or poverty, communicating a message through writing is a powerful form of expression.

Secondly, writing is therapeutic because it can play the role of a personal means of voicing your own thoughts. Writing doesn’t always need to be shared with others; on the contrary, good writing is often kept hidden, because it usually stems from pain. Whether it’s the pain of anger, hate, betrayal, or the pain of love, writing in the form of an emotional outlet can relieve any bottled stress. Maybe you’re upset because you’re holding so much angst, or maybe it’s because love turned out to be the opposite of what you always dreamed. Maybe you thought love was luxury, a victory of history, a mystery you couldn’t wait to solve. But you quickly learned that love is misery, trickery, pure agony, like fire burning through your arteries. You learned that love is not bliss, or fulfillment, love is not a star that illuminates the abyss, love is an asteroid threatening to kiss the world with its flames of fire, willing to destroy anything it desires. You learned that love is not blind, love chooses not to see, in a sea of difficulty, love is the debris of a predicted explosion that corroded every inch of steel wrapped around your heart. You learned that love does not mend, does not ascend from the heavens like you expect, love will be your end because love is nothing but pretend. Or maybe I have it wrong. Maybe you feel betrayed and forgotten because all they’ve ever done was write you love poems, never gave you the chance to advance in a world where you’re unknown. They never healed the scars you got from those sticks and stones, never took time to mend those broken bones. All they’ve ever done was write you love poems, the only way they knew how to atone for each time that they did you wrong, but what kind of love is a love that only exists in a song? Because all they’ve ever done was rhyme your name to the tune, till your heart became immune to the clichés they would spew. All they’ve ever done was write you love poems, but all you’ve ever done was write them back. Or maybe it’s not the catastrophe of love at all; maybe it’s just a silent kind of ache. Maybe you’re upset because they taught you that drugs can kill, and you believed them. But they didn’t teach you about the mental pain, the psychological strain that will reign on your stability, till you’re no longer sane, can’t maintain or restrain your own brain and your own thoughts, you’re left in knots, and you wonder why they never warned you of the mental chains that have kept you locked. Whatever it is that’s going on in your mind, or the emotions you’re imprisoning within yourself, writing can be therapeutic because it can act as a release and as a personal means of voicing your own thoughts.

So, in conclusion, there’s more to writing than just the literal sense of the word. Writing is self-expression because it gives you a voice loud enough to reach millions, and it’s also therapeutic because it acts as an emotional outlet. I believe that writing is a form of expression, used to relieve any tension in the dimensions of my mind. It is used to bind the intertwined wires I hopelessly try to unwind. Writing is that which I cannot define. It is the words and thoughts I try to combine to complete the circuit I try to design. But writing is so much more. It is every belief I think I stand for. It is every key to each bolted door. Writing is peace, but writing is not sane. Writing is truce, but writing is disdain. Writing is the pain that flows through my veins; it is the hope that stains the feelings I cannot restrain. Writing is the release of any demons I hold, and writing has mutated my life from rubble to gold.

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