I do not know. I don't remember when I first decided to write. What was that moment when I must have thought inking was better than telling? Pen over voice. What was the moment when I sought solace in the blank, listening pages of a diary, instead of the people who claimed to deserve my trust? Was it when my blood denied my color? Was it when my batchmates moved away from me, silently, without goodbye? Was it when the teacher skipped over me because I needed a little longer to think? Was it when my kinfolk turned their faces away because I was too ill, too inconvenient?
It must have been a moment of sadness when my words went unheard that I thought of registering on a page. It must have been a moment of pain when my cries were ignored and I first poured my emotions into the back of a forgotten notebook.
It hurts, you know. I love filling these pages with beautiful words, broken poems, obscure sentences, and abandoned memories. But the whys and wherefores behind this love? They are themselves my brokenness. They are the moments where I was abandoned.
- Oizys.
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