I can’t write.
As a child I followed the rules, listening to every constant bell and teacher instructions.
I thought that was what life was, always doing what was expected of me as if I was a lion in a circus waiting for my next trick.
But it turns out, life is the complete opposite, life is about fighting the unknown and making a skyscraper out of what you have and what you can do. So writing was hard.
It was hard because I had no mind of my own to freely express, I was ashamed with myself because I had to rely on other people to run my life. I was a blank page that was constantly getting scribbled on.
So everyday I would look up different stories and compare them to another, but that was no use either. You see it’s hard to compare a love story to a thriller, or a story about hurt and suffering to a comedy that has you in stitches from the first paragraph. Each story, each author and each emotion was like no other and I envied that.
Day after day, night after endless night…
I finally gave up.
Then my teacher entered the whole class into this stupid poem competition and was reluctant to not include me as a toddler was with sharing their toys. It’s ironic to write about not being able to isn’t it?
What you just read was my entry.
Here I am now, a first place competitor who thought she couldn’t write. Only now had I realised that I wasn’t a good writer because I listened. Because I listened and did only what was asked of. I was predictable. I was predictable when I should have broken the rules, I should have visualised what I wanted. Materialised what I wanted, every letter, every emotion, and conquered. I didn’t need to seek out the approval of others, I just needed my own.
I am here now.