It’s hard to write about beauty when surrounded by despair.
A woman is trapped in her flat
for fearing to be found by her perpetrator who has been released from custody.
A man couldn’t afford to pay rent because the persistent rainy weather renders him jobless, and the pending doom of being evicted and losing custody of his children.
An old man had to put down his companion dog because he couldn’t afford the vet bill.
A disabled teenager mourns the passing of her mother, also her only carer.
A young man sinks into deep depression and anxiety because of the hormone therapy side effects.
The stories and events go on, and of course there are also wars which were started by people who bear no guilt of murder.
It’s hard to write about beauty, or see the beauty in the overladen ugly, sometimes.
Like many things in life,
writing is a decision.
I recently came to this conclusion.
I am not a writing genius,
among many others.
The seed of writing
didn’t just grow
Sowing, nourishing, attending
before its flourish,
there has been little sign of beauty.
I wanted to give up
and give in.
I questioned myself,
‘Is this worthwhile
if I never see the bloom?’
what is the alternative?
There was this tiny seed,
how could I abort a life?