When we’re little, we write about unicorns, houses of gingerbread, and flying whales. The moon made of cheese and the magic of the easter bunny, distractions from the thought of the future.
Our lives were met with fantasies, our imaginations never ending. Writing was never at a stop, words on a page beginning to spring with colour and youth– the kind of freedom everyone dreams of, yet is only attainable with the essence of naivety. The freedom to express your true self, to live amongst the chaos, the loudness, without any consequence. Our Utopia.
Yet one day, without knowing, everything changed and you started to do things for the last time.
Playing with toys? Too old for that now
Easter Bunny, Father Christmas? It was your parents all along
Dreams? Unattainable
Notebooks desolate, pen to paper no longer being an everyday experience. Words clam up, yet emotions grew heavier. Innocence disappeared, and pain broke through. You still write, except it’s smaller now, done in the dark, on your phone. Your everyday behaviour still carries the core self of the child you once were, yet your heart bears the pain of loneliness, so instead of writing about the dreams your mind creates, you write about the ache your heart comes to grip with, building worlds to escape this one.
However, as you grow older, your writing adapts as your perspective adapts too. Stories are no longer forged to escape reality, but rather to expose it. Words grow, not with aches and pains, but with passion and demand. Labelled dystopias, anything to shy away from the truth. Some read “fiction”, writers read warning signs.
Writing is an art of many forms, from sparking creativity to galvanising change, yet all words remain powerful.
You begin with unicorns,
You move to bullying,
And now to write the exposure of what the world has come to.
So maybe, just maybe, we can start to use the power of words to write what the world should be.
The ink is our rebellion, not loud– yet lasting.