𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

I discovered the passion for writing when I was 14 and soon to turn 15. It was when I started staning a K-pop boyband and developed the hobby of reading their fanfictions-- weird I know but universal experience I believe. But the thing about them was that-- they had been nicely written like almost everything about them was good, trust me when I say this-- I swear on my favourite snack.

And while reading them I always had thoughts "why don't they write on this particular romantic thing?" "why do they not write on this canon event of life" "why do they not describe these feelings?". I remember being so frustrated about this one day I ranted it to my best friend and the only sentence she said in my 30 minutes of rant was that--

"Why don't you write it?"

That I think snapped a nerve in my brain because suddenly I was writing 50 pages long stories with proper dialogues and scene descriptions, crying over character's deaths, sipping coffee and listening to the song that would go with the story-- I had a freaking playlist. I started having too many ideas all at once and then making folders of them in my Google doc to write them later, but that later? It never came.

I started with making a page for fanfictions on Instagram(please don't judge me) and on one fine day I started designing layouts, cover pages and slides for my first ever post. It went fine--- got reach, likes, comments-- saves even. I also remember one of my followers commenting

"if you keep going, you might as well publish a book one day"

And right after this comment, I was fueled with dedication-- enough to complete two stories in a day and post them one by one, alternative days. But the fuel was supposed to just burn right? The dedication wore off, I was left stranded-- with no more ideas to write on, no more words to describe what a certain feeling felt like and certainly my chest heavy with not being able to do what I used to.

The dedication turned on and off like a light switch-- coming, not coming. The diary I used to keep with me to school to scribble down the ideas sat abandoned in my drawer, the page too-- like it was never there and finally my lucky pen too.

On the night of 22nd September at 12:45 AM, I sat with my diary-- reading through the fantasies of the 15 year old me, flipping through the pages of tons of grammatical mistakes, bad dialogue delivery but surely a story that had potential to go hit. I felt like I had looked at her-- the 15 year old me, in the eye and said

"You tried and I'm proud of you"

She didn't really get that enough you know and I believe the air was filled with melancholy and it had enveloped me in it like a blanket-- cold but comforting.

And now that I think about it I might as well pick up the diary and the lucky pen again, but I wonder if I can promise myself to it.

Have I really lost the art of writing?

Or

Have I been lost all along?

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖⋆˚𖥔

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𖥔 ݁˖⋆˚ To all the lost writers :)

𖥔 ݁ ݁˖⋆˚ Thank you for interacting 🪐