Words have forever been stitching
a patchwork blanket of intricate
tales for me to wrap around myself
like armor; they keep me safe. They
keep me warm. Words have been
drawing me into the worlds they
create since before I can remember
and I have been falling, falling,
falling headfirst towards their magic,
and I’ve been slowly collecting
the ingredients to weave my own delusions
into something that might provide
the same feeling that other people’s
words do.
This is the beauty of fiction, this
is the beauty of words scrawled on
a page. It helps you forge your own path,
create your own identify, manoeuvre
your own destiny. Fiction creates a
song out of dissent, a dance out of
chaos, a movie out of worry, a
story out of imagination.
It’s been helping me recover from
blows I didn’t realise were being inflicted,
it’s helped me move past pain and
backwards to better days,
its helped me carve an opinion out of
a smattering of thoughts.
It helps me breathe, it helps
me stay sane, it helps
me escape to worlds better than my own.
Words have forever been stitching
an exquisite blanket of stories from
worlds beyond, of feelings I am yet
to recognise, of people I might
never know, of fiction.
Words have been providing me shelter
as I navigate the real; fiction has been
providing me solutions for problems
before I have them and I’ve been
reading, reading, reading, I’ve
been curled up on my bed, I’ve
been slowly healing every cut on
my body and now, I’m flourishing,
blossoming, surviving. And,
it’s not like fiction healed all
my wounds, but it gave me
the tools to heal myself, and
without it, I might have spiraled
into madness, into misery, into
depths I don’t want to reach.
So fiction may not have healed
all of my wounds, but here I am
today, here I am, warm within
my words, here I am immersed
in yet another book,
here I am, happy.
Here I am, reading.


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