I heard someone call himself a “feeling person”. I heard him call someone else a “thinking person”. Naturally, it got me thinking which one I am. It got me thinking which one people think I am.
I do not wear my heart on my sleeves. In fact, I do not wear anything on my sleeves. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel deeply about certain things. In fact, it is because I feel deeply that I hide my heart from the world.
I do not say much. I feel much. When I try to open my mouth, my words often betray me. Speaking to me is like waterfalls. The water comes crashing down uncontrollably. So I do not speak. I let my words come down gently with the twist of a knob. Like a faucet. And that is exactly what writing does for me.
So what do I write about?
Silly things. Petty things. Serious things. I write about a lot of things, but mostly, I write about pain. Lang Leav once said that pain transforms literature in the same way that salt can transform any dish. She wrote it in her book called Sad Girls. She also said that not all writers are sad but all sad people tend to write.
I’ve gone through all of her poems. Most of them are sad. I was quick to judge that she’d be another sad girl who picked up a pen. For the longest time, I thought she’s a dark and twisted writer who has taken heartbreak as her muse. Heartbreak is a generous muse, you know. But I met her recently. She was warm and happily in love. I reached out my hand to shake hers but she gave me a hug instead. She can’t possibly be a sad girl.
So I guess it’s true that not all writers are sad. She’s simply a writer who writes about sad things. And I’m probably just a sad girl with a pen, writing about pain but not writing about what is painful. I’m just another sad girl writing about heartbreak but not writing about what’s breaking my heart.
I do not wear my heart on my sleeves. I keep it in my writing, carefully tucked between the lines.