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What it means to Write

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The world is watching, and you are writing for no one but yourself. 

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Write for youself even if you don't write for fame, money or others.
The world is watching, and you are writing for no one but yourself. 
Write before the time is up.
Write before you lose yourself in a morphing city that never relents.

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I have been writing since before I knew how to spell.

I found tiny books stapled by my tiny hands, words misspelt and grammar all tensed. I had known from a young age that I loved the idea of writing. Somehow along the way, bumbling through life I became an English Major in NTU. I had not planned for this, but I should have seen it coming from the first time I spelt suddenly as 'subbenly' in that tattered stack of green pages that I used to believe was a novel. And maybe that green book was a novel, I just don't have a publisher.

As I grew I continued to write in many forms. In primary school I wrote my own Nancy Drew detective story, but gave up after the second chapter. Then from primary 5 to secondary 2, I wrote fanfictions on animes I knew. (Some of them even completed in a two volume format, they now sit waiting in my drawer for me to peruse.)

Writing is amazing. It is reflective, interpretive and creative. I've thought deeply about what it means to write. Now I'm creating content for myself, as a reconciliation for the writer that has slowly been disappearing under the weight of work and school demands. I'll only dread the days when graduation comes and work life squeezes every trickle of spontaneity/creativity from my weathered brain. 

So I'ld like to do the obligatory/much needed thank you to youth.sg for giving me this chance to write even if its only for 6 months. I will be posting on school life and my personal works on this blog, hopefully to keep it as a reminder of my ideas. 

So here's to the hodgepodge blog that will be peppered with scribbles and some fiction/poetry. 

Time is a Luxury

I still don't know.

I had a burst of writing, creativity blossoming from my
Pen ink stains coloured the pale page, pouring out
Time is luxury in an urban
World of flurry activity.

I fancy myself packing up to Skye, a place without
Internet to distract my painting on white
Canvas that spreads across the hills, rolling
Plains of green wool blotted with
Blood of my ink

Splat

Down

The page

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