By Caroline Hesby, TIWP Student
Almost all confusion can be solved with some paper and a pen.
Once the ink seeps into the blank white space, it is ready to tell you all the things you thought you didn’t know. The curves of the letters dance across the page; it won’t stop unless you make it. Unless you’re too afraid of what it might spell out.
You should be afraid of your pen. Afraid of the truths it will lock into existence, afraid of its brutal honesty, and intelligence, and passion.
But that’s why you pick it up, isn’t it?
So that you can finally face the songs and sentences that flow through your veins, turning your blood to ink, waiting to be set free on the page. You pick up the pen to test yourself. To see how far you can go, to see how wild your mind can become before your hand grows strained and weak.
Often we begin to write, thinking it’s addressed to someone else, thinking it’s supposed to be read by others. It’s why we paint out every detail, why we capture each emotion fully from beginning to end. And often we don’t realize that we picked up the pen to write to ourselves.
And still these words, so personal, become universal because there is always someone out there who needed to hear the same words too.
That is why we write, isn’t it?
To face our own realities, to speak our own beliefs, to set free these collections of thoughts to hopefully be found by those who feel the same, or even to be heard by those who don’t.
Our words create bridges across classrooms and oceans. Our pen questions, and declares, it comforts and it heals. All anyone wants to do is make some sense of the world they exist in. Through the pen, we come to realize that even with our infinite unique experiences and ideas, in this endeavor to figure it all out, we are not alone.