Cryptic Words and Hidden Letters

023

:: Haya's Second Journal

Fancy notebooks are one of my collections when I reached the age of six. Since then, everytime my heart laughs about something, it's written. When I cry out loud about a thing, it's written—with droplets of tears on that page.

I always have a paper for the things I want to do and remember. Diaries, that's given. Slambooks, interesting facts about some people around me. Sketchpad, my art frustrations. Scratches, dress designs that I inspired from my cousin's drawings. A composition notebook, where unfinished and unclear lyrics were written.

Everytime something comes up, I take my paper out, and a pen—and it'll just come out naturally.

As time goes by, changes became my friend and my enemy. I won some battles, but I lost most of it. In pursuit of finding happiness and reasons about everything that I've been searching through my childhood days, I found myself losing every bit of the innocence and bliss I once had.

"Shut up," they said. Until then, I learned to fear the act of speaking. I'm afraid that my words will always be left unheard. I despise doing all the talk, I hate being the one they listened too. I felt out of every places, and I became a stranger to all streets, with no one being interested in the reality of my story, buried with sugar-coated narratives.

I was told to zip my mouth and get in the corner of the room to force myself for a reflection, but without a mirror. Sadly, I became used to it.

No matter how hard I try to speak firmly on my stand, I'll end up crying over the voices defeating mine. A shout became my weakness, a continuous nagging makes me tremble. My tears are shallow, but the emotions I have will always be deep.

Just like the cuts that left scars on my wrist.

When I thought that the world will forever silence my mouth to speak my heart, I found solace in isolation inside the four corners of my messy room. My teenage years found its way to slowly free my lost and seemingly hopeless soul, and as I grabbed my pen and paper to once again talk, I knew at that moment that finally picked up the key to unlock everything that I jailed before.

The small pieces of the puzzle are coming in together, pulling closer to the real image of what has been broken years ago. When I thought of giving up, the ink kept me going.

Writing became the therapy I needed when I was being fucked up by the abuse and torture of my past.

I'm finally freeing myself.