As a little girl, I loved to write, to put my thoughts on paper and to read it later to a much amused audience. They would ask me where I had come up with such ideas and thoughts. It was in moments such as those when I felt like I was on top of the world.
However, as the years passed by, so did my zeal and passion to write. It was almost like that bright flame was turning to embers. I still wrote, but that was only in private diaries and that too only to keep my sanity. But these diaries were not works of art that I could treasure; instead they were just a mere reflection of my own emotional roller coaster.
It was neither inability nor was it the shortage of things to write about that hindered me. But now, I know it was insecurity. The essays, poems and stories I had, I wrote onto the pages of my heart. Yet, I never had the courage to actually put them on paper. That which was etched deep within the layers of my worn out heart, remained there.
I am still young. Many have gone ahead of me, in age, maturity and wisdom. However, though I am but a child still, I have now made a decision. A decision I have prolonged for far too long. I have decided to read and share the journal of my heart. So much is written and so many layers I have to sort through, but I know I must put it in ink.
There are times when my imagination bewilders even myself and my dreams seem as far away as the stars. Yet when I read, they seem just a little bit closer. And that is what I want to do- to touch others as I myself have been touched. I am probably not a literary genius or another legend in the making, but the sky is still the limit. It is my time, my time to write and my time to pierce through the veins and into the hearts of those who will read with an open mind and an open soul.