Saturday, January 19, 2013

It's not like I haven't been writing.

I have written in the last few days, more than I have written in the last few months. But I have no inclination of publishing it. I have no inclination of being read, of being written about. I wanted to write for myself, just write about what I felt, stories, poems, regrets, friendship and more. I loved it. I like being read, but not more than fully and honestly committing to writing. No judgement, no grammar, no beautiful sentences. Just raw writing.

Sometimes I wondered if this was simply therapeutic, confessions to myself. It does very little in terms of making me a better as a writer, it makes me feel better as a person and that really counts. I found my little piece of heaven in my tiny red book where I can retire to and write, ramble, complain, live, laugh, confess and forget. It would be what I call my very own pensive. I can revisit these feelings when I have the time and the inclination.

But I also want to write on my blog, I don't know how much I will enjoy after writing in my little red book! But I will try to write here as well. I need the grammar and the pretty sentences! :D

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