The page runs with a thousand words left unsaid

The ink runs with a thousand words left unsaid.

I never could phrase what I wanted to say properly. I was left to be the kind, considerate healer, not the diplomat. Words were -are- not easily spoken for me; it seems as if my mouth gives them a life of their own, so they rebel against my wishes, and do their own bidding.
Writing though…

Writing comes easily to me. Its second nature by now, the right words flowing from mind to pen or keys. There is a simple pleasure in filling a blank page with my childish scrawl, as if I am back at my primary school, making ip endless stories to fill the time.

I always found such comfort in words, whether writing them, or reading them. Such a simple act that has been around for thousands of years, carving symbols into stone. It makes me feel part of something awesome. Something precious and privet.

I am confident when I write. I feel all powerful, like nothing I scratch into paper will sound stupid or wrong.
Yet letting others read what I write…

Even this blog! Its a privet thing; it feels like I’m baring my soul for all to see and judge. I have grown used to it now, though, by exposure.

My Dad once started reading a story I was writing and I got so embarrassed! Because it was personal to me; if he didn’t like it, it was like he wouldn’t like the piece of my heart that I put into it.

Words are my escape. They’re my way into a new person, one with confidence, power, knowledge. One who knows how awesome she is and isn’t afraid to flaunt it.

Then I go back to being me and I lose it.
Someone said to me once that everyone else can see how amazing I am, except for myself.

Is that true of my writing? Because I’m okay with most of it, but I wouldn’t say they were brilliant.

I don’t know…
Shannon.