I packed my bags, all my belongings, even those that were too heavy, those that were useless, those that I should have left behind, I packed. And along the path to expression, I started my journey.
It was supposed to be an easy one. The journey.
“If only I finish this journey, then surely, I will have no problem expressing how I feel when I feel it. “
“Surely, if only I finished this journey, perhaps I won’t have to lie ever again.”
The first step was easy. I wrote what I felt, and I felt good writing it.
“I am past writing to escape. I am now writing to express. “
You should have seen the smile on my face. It was blinding.
Then came the second step, then the third, fourth…countless, all easy, all making me have a blinding smile when I inserted the last full stop.
It was beautiful.
I honestly thought I was done.
“I am born anew. A person who can finally express themselves. I have finished my journey, and how I love this blinding smile.”
Then, it happened.
I met a person. Or two. Or three. What I am trying to say is that I met people. In real life. Away from my path to expression. People in other paths; paths to love, paths to beauty, paths to fame, paths to better lives.
All these people in their own paths. People who had me in these paths of theirs. People who were not in my path to expression.
I tried telling them of my path. My path to expression. I tried my best.
It was hopeless. I could not express, not if it was to another person who was not me.
And I thought,
“Perhaps I never did take that first step, to begin with. Perhaps I never left with my bags, all my belongings. Perhaps the path to expression is still clear, yet to be walked on.”