What writing means to me

I’ve been a reader of blogs for years and my first nappy-wearing crawl into the Blogging World made me wonder apprehensively, if I might be received well, mostly because I’ve always been a critical analyst of the manner in which thoughts are conveyed within the folds of the blogsphere.

There are times when I have felt bloggers can be self-indulgent and overly so, given the anonymity of source, and I have also seen blogging wars and attacks on one another merely over a matter of diverse opinion which is permissible if only it didn’t attack straight into the heart of the blogger, thus making it a personal war and vendetta.

Online journaling is a funny thing. To me personally, it’s a means of release in one sense, and also a means of learning and widening my scope with regards to a given subject or nagging thought of worry or ecstatic revelation or query – whatever it may be that I blog about.

I have always loved to write. 13 years ago, I was quite a prolific writer and I quite enjoyed the fine art of crafting well constructed sentences in order to express myself in the best possible way.

Thinking of the finest flow of thought and the most finely manageable sequence of the idea-packed carriages and compartments of that train of thought that rushed through my mind always gave me some sense of fulfillment!

As a girl who schooled in one of the “posher” colleges in Colombo, holding the post of Editress of the College Magazine made me not only honour its obligations but pride myself in this little hobby that I enjoyed indulging in from childhood, only to lose it along the way, to other priorities that replaced it so heavily that my pen was put away, never to picked up again. Not until just a few days ago.

So many, many years later, I may have turned rusty and for that perhaps I owe an apology! I haven’t written in years and years and Blogging has opened out an inner floodgate that seems to be making living waters surge through me in ways that I can’t simply explain on text.

The past few days have been amazing in a very personal way and I feel that my inner self, the real me, has some kind of source of expression once again which in itself gives me exhilarating feelings that prove to be quite exciting, given the mundane flavour that was threatening to engulf my day to day living.

I feel I’ve found my pen again. And this pen has so much ink inside it that has always been there (somewhere) needing just a little shake for it to make me write again.