We used to write with such childlike freedom. No
restrictions. No rigid formats to follow. No detailed instructions on the “how”
and “what”. We wrote because it was our second nature, like artists drew and
singers sang. Words poured out onto the page, running after our train of
thought that was often a mixed up mess of thoughts and ideas crowding our brain
at once. We wrote because nothing brings us joy like seeing words come together
under our little hand, to form sentences that sometimes make sense to only ourselves. Each
piece of writing was like the favourite toy we owned since we were little. It
might not be in perfect condition, chipped or even broken in some parts, but we
held it dear to our heart and burst into tears whenever someone attempted to
take it away. Sometimes we wrote just so we could laugh at our own writing
later on. Because as we laughed, we also could see how and how much we had
grown. Writing was our way of speaking. Because we were the awkward kids who
found it so much easier to slip a piece of paper into someone’s hand and run away than to talk to them.
We used to write to express, not impress.
