The Healing Power of Old Words

While every other fifteen-year-old was busy making new friends and keeping up with the latest teenage trends, I spent my lunch hour buried in a book. It wasn’t a textbook or any mandatory reading, but simply reading for pleasure.

I wasn’t exactly unpopular because everyone knew who I was. I was the girl who coordinated everything, from sports and cultural events to peer training and the annual Christmas charity drive. In hindsight, I may have been unpopularly popular.

Despite my seemingly social awkwardness, I had many friends and formed a few close relationships. We weren’t (and still aren’t) the type to talk every day, but when we do, it’s as though no time has passed.

It was during those high school years that I discovered my love for reading and writing. I aced every English exam, and Literature became my favorite subject. I won several English awards and tutored others on many occasions. When our school hosted Poetry contests, I didn’t just submit one or two pieces, but four or five. At any given competition, I would walk away with two or sometimes three prizes. I was convinced I didn’t win every prize because the judges didn’t want to discourage the other entrants.

My life revolved around reading and writing, and I made the decision to pursue a career as a writer. Fast forward twenty years, and while I’ve maintained my love for writing, which has been successful in many forums, I began to believe that being a writer was more of an idea than a reality for me. Writing became my personal expression – an outlet with no restrictions. My fifteen-year-old self wanted to live in that outlet, but my adult self wanted to live in reality.

As life unfolded, I forgot about this passion of mine, but it wasn’t until recently, while cleaning, that I found a blue notebook I once carried with me everywhere, just in case inspiration struck. It had a dusty scent, and on the cover was a handwritten design of a “Blue’s Clues” paw print with the word “Eureka!” scrawled across it.

And what a find it was!

I eagerly picked it up, excited to sift through the tattered pages with faded ink. It was carefully punctuated with newspaper clippings of interesting articles, along with inspiring little notes to myself nestled between dozens of poems I had written. It was astounding. I stood frozen, determined to recall the headspace I had back then, the one that led to the creation of this blue notebook.

I carefully turned the brittle, discolored pages, and between each page, every line, and space, I narrated my teenage and young adult life. Fifteen-year-old me had scripted every incident, interaction, and experience through poetry and short stories.

I paused my cleaning and sat down to absorb this book of treasures as a storm of emotions coursed through my body. The topics varied widely, and from cover to cover, I documented a life that might have been far beyond my time. I recounted reading my first novel in primary school, Prince Caspian. At that time, we weren’t allowed to take books home, so I hid it in a corner of the school’s library. I reminisced about later reading illustrated classics like Little Women and Great Expectations, then diving into Thomas Hardy novels and everything by Jane Austen. I reflected on personal change and growth, the trials of friendships and family, and wrote poems on everything around me – from the homeless man on the side of the road to my reflections on hate and war.

I spent the next few hours enthralled in this safe haven. I was immersed in memories of the people in my life – those who stayed and those who left. I read about those who inspired me and those who have passed on. When I was done, I safely tucked the blue notebook away and carried on with my chores. That was one month ago, and since then, I’ve returned to the book every day. I’m still shocked that a teenager like me had taken the time to write. I noted grammatical errors and metaphors that weren’t quite clear, but I felt the passion and emotion in the craft. I had simply enjoyed writing, and as I got older, I had lost touch with that part of myself – the part that always wanted to tell a story.

The rediscovery of “Eureka!” wasn’t just a nostalgic trip; it was a jolt, an electric surge that reignited a part of me I thought had long faded. It’s like finding a hidden door in your own house, leading to a forgotten room filled with vibrant colors and echoing laughter. Suddenly, the world feels wider, brighter, brimming with possibilities. I’m not just inspired; I’m practically vibrating with excitement! I’m driven, fueled by a raw, almost childlike energy to dive back into the realm of creation.

In the meantime, I am inspired, driven, and ready to reawaken the creative part of myself because the fifteen-year-old inside me still believes that everything in life is writable. And in the words of Maya Angelou, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”