We were always meant to fly

I once read somewhere, that the best songs, and the best stories, were usually written by those whom were unfortunate. Because only those with great grief could weave words so truly beautiful. Like phoenix that rise from ashes, an incomparable beauty.

And to a certain point, I believed that.

I used to write a lot. Words seemed so easy back then. When daydream turns to paragraphs on empty white papers. I used to indulge myself with how words could interlink and rhyme and how I get satisfying goosebumps tasting my deepest secret spoken silently between lines.

And then I stopped.

Up until today, I am not sure what have happened. Whether it was the lack of time, or the lack of commitment, or the lack of passion, or the lack of muse. Or the lack of ill luck? (But hey that has to be a good thing, right? Haha.)

But I guess what I miss the most was how, by writing, I gave my words a little bit more mortality than by just thinking about them. And then being able to read them, and remember them, and taste them. Those deep rooted emotions.

I miss this pathway of escape.

As if to say:
"It does not matter
how long
you have kept us in cages,
it does not matter
how strong
your gravity is,
we,
were always meant
to fly."

"Where is our home?"
-poet, Sarah Kay

I miss writing poetry.
I really, really miss writing.