The other World.

She was still seated in her little corner when the fire alarm rang. I was curious as to what could have been wrong with her. She must have had earphones on and the music was too loud.I mean why else would she be seated while everyone else was trying to save their lives. As I rushed towards her I must have cursed. Why did I have to look back and see her. Damn I should have run out of class like everybody else!  I was in shock when I got to her and she didn’t have loud music. She was actually reading a novel. I didn’t have time to examine exactly which book it was. She thanked me and we ran out to the fire assembly point.

Later on , after there was no threat to my life I had a moment to think. I thought about that girl.I thought about how she was totally lost to this world. All because of reading a book. She must have truly felt a connection with what the writer was expressing. She must have been truly connected to completely log out of reality as she had.

In that moment, my motivation to write came back. I had honestly lost some faith in my ability to write after a few bad comments on my essays from teachers.  Seeing someone so lost in the world of writing made me get it back. I never wrote because I had the best grammar or vocabulary. Honestly that was something I struggled with. Ps. I totally still do but I’m working on it.

  I write because I know what if feels to totally drift into that other dimension. To be completely dissolved into a world where anything and everything was possible. Books and articles are like a looking glass. Once on the other side you never want to go back. It is a world that is, by my definition ,perfect.

  I could remember the  feeling when I just started reading. I was so young but I soon got addicted to that desicions. I craved to go back to that world where I could find company for all my situations. A world where people were always eager to know more. It was my time there that made me venture into writing.

  I wondered if it was possible for me to create something so beautifully bizzare. I wanted to give somebody that gift I had been given. They say misery loves comfort and in this other dimension one could always find someone facing the same situations and dilemmas. I wanted to give somebody a chance at experiencing life  differently.

While deep into my writing something even more mystical happened.With evry story or article I wrote , I felt free. Like I was  letting go of all my walls and expressing myself truly. Beyond that each time I wrote ,a new aspect of me was revealed. My: beliefs, fears, hopes, strengths and motives in life came into the light. I was slowly discovering my true self. It was as though every piece I wrote carried a part of me. 

  I thought of writers like J.K.Rowling who had been rejected many times by some publishers before finally getting a chance to tell their stories. Stories which years later would inspire and change lives. I wanted to be like him. I dreamed that one day someone would think of me when thinking of people who brought inspiration to their lives.

 I actually saw the political writers those who with the stroke of a pen had changed governments. Those who had fought civil wars with ink and not blood.Writers like Shakespeare  whose work was changing peoples’ mindset centuries after they were put down. Would I ever be mentioned as one who brought some positive change to the world?

At that moment. I knew I could never put my pen down. I had to write. I had to help people go to that place where I had found home. The place where I found safety, comfort and hope. I had to help at least one person find that world where no dream was too big or an idea to wild. To that world where I found myself.



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