Letter to you

I find myself here again, trying to transform my thoughts into words that can heal. Every one of them is infused with a bit of pain, joy, confusion, and other feelings.

The more words come out, the more peaceful I become inside. They help me find names and definitions for the thoughts swimming in my mind, and for the feelings that spur from those thoughts.

Me, laying words on the page, has started as a selfish endeavor, but it has now become a way to let people know that they are not alone in their struggle, that they are stronger than they believe themselves to be, that they can survive anything they are going through.

Every day, I write a letter to you, whoever you are. I am confident that the words will find you when you need them the most, and hopefully, they will provide understanding and comfort, or clarity. If you are searching for something or someone to tell you who you are, know that your search is in vain.

The only one to decide who you are is yourself.  So, turn your search inwards, and use my words to define what you find there. Do this only until you can use words of your own. Your world will always reflect what is inside, and to keep your balance, you need to understand what is going on there.

I need to stop thinking about what I should write or what tools should I use, and get back to writing my story. I have no valid reason why I haven’t finished the first draft. All I can find are excuses, but they will not do me any good. They’re only a band aid for my ego.

The story I have started is still calling for me. I feel it pulling my attention to what I should do, but, until now I’ve found ways to distract me. Though I didn’t want to admit it, this story is connected to who I am, and I need to finish it, or it will haunt me for the rest of my days.

All the characters of this story have gathered around, and they are asking what’s with the silence, and why there is nothing happening. I ran from the true answer, but it has caught up with me, and now I have to stop complaining and start building again.

Every brick I add to the construction gets me closer to the finished thing. No matter how small, progress is still progress. The people whose lives make up the story I’ve been chosen to write, compel me to push through all the obstacles that keep me from reaching the end of the story.

I need to write the right words so they can live the right lives.