Writing to heal?

I wonder if writing ever makes you heal faster. The feelings etched beneath your skin get inked on paper in the attempt of getting it off your chest.

Writing forces you to remember all the memories that flow in, like as if the floodgates have just been opened.

Writing makes you compartmentalise the happy memories from the sad and bitter ones. It gives you the option, or rather liberty, to either focus on the good or the bad.

Writing makes the first kiss all the more real as if the taste of it still lingers on your fingertips.

It makes you remember the time your heart skipped a beat as if it were running with the aid of a pacemaker and he was the master.

Everyone writes lyrically about the beauty of love when in love. After all, they say “at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” But when love turns painful, one tries to disguise it.

So beneath these naked words, lie painful memories that torment like a demon.


The Unspoken.

Silence surrounded them. It was eerie. All around, darkness and the unknown. Yet, they never felt safer. Neither of them had noticed the hands of the clock ticking as they poured their heart out to each other. About life, love, loss, pain, happiness, death. They spoke all that needed to be said and then grew silent when both their gazes met. It felt right out of a movie sequence. The typical scene when both the hero and heroine get lost in each other’s eyes. It happened. Not the first time for the night, though. Except, this time round, she couldn’t, or rather didn’t, fight the thought of turning away. In was a matter of seconds, or should I say milli seconds, before his body began pressing on her collarbone. Her heart leaped. His touch still made her warm and fuzzy in her insides. Before she could even react or let the smile that formed in the corner of her lips fully evolve, his lips were already pressed onto hers.

Love, that’s the only way you heal. At least, that’s the only way, they knew how to.