Just yesterday, I woke up in the middle of the night for absolutely no reason, and the haunting yet embracing feeling of the night settled and sank in my heart, as it does. My legs moved automatically, and I stood in front of the bed, not quite knowing where to look, where to go, nor what to do.
I felt like a patient does when he has forgotten everything and struggles to remember as he stands in the middle of an unfamiliar familiar room.
And it is in these moments that I pick up a nearby pen.
An instrument for this magic called Writing. That opens doors to a suppressed heart full of complex, fluttering, restless emotions.
And I pick up a notebook, open it to the next blank page that was destined to be scribbled on at that middle of the night, and I write and I write.
I write and I write and my hands dont stop. They hurt but they keep going, like a train that lost its control, heading directly to an unknown place where the crash is imminent.
I have finally identified the complex unnamed feelings through writing. Writing helps me to identify, like an investigator who finally put a name to the criminal. Although sometimes the writing cant pinpoint and feels like it had completely missed the target, which only leaves me feeling disappointed, because it means I have to start from the top.
It is as if I had opened a window and let the dust go out.
When I close that window, the dust accumulates, and the cycle to let them out ensues.
I write to clean my heart, I write to identify (though they sometimes fail), I write because in the middle of the night when I am lost, writing guides me back to the path I left off.