By Nrl Liya
Edited by Syafiqah Suhaimi
In the passing moment of walking down the aisle of countless books waiting to be read in a bookstore, I stopped to think of this inner jealousy and envy in my heart. An innate desire bloomed in my heart at the idea of being able to write a story. To take that speck of imagination and build it up. Nurture it and harness it to become a reality between pages and black ink.
How did it begin? I wondered. Between learning how to spell to creating a story filled with characters as if they breathe the air itself and experiencing the richness of life that we haven’t even begun to experience.
I’m not a writer, at least in the context of wishing to publish a book, and neither do I aspire to be. But I can’t help to think about it as I am on this course, which could lead me to become a writer.
It was beautiful and mesmerising when I caressed the black ink that gives life and meaning to the once-blank pages. During that moment, a million thoughts appeared: from how enjoyable this story would be to how the writer could create such a story in the first place, from how it could tell a thousand stories to how it might not even be enough.
‘How’. That’s the question, isn’t it?
How do these people manage to create something so beautiful with just their minds, conjure up a whole new world, and then turn it into something—a book?
How do they conjure up the confidence to get it out? What has been lingering in their minds as they daydream or lay down waiting for slumber to take them in?
How do they start?
How do I begin?
I felt jealousy seeping into me. Because these pages that tell a story are proof of the writer's existence and their capabilities. It’s proof that they have lived a life.
Do I have a life? A story to tell?
There’s a quote from C.S. Lewis, “It's funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different”.
I look at my life that way.
When I go by my days, walking to classes in the morning and the sun is shy away from being the burning star it is, I look around nature and the buildings that I have found myself adapted to. That road and river near the Female Sports Centre (FSC) became part of my walk, where I seemed to appreciate life the most.
It's calm and serene, and sometimes my brain goes almost poetic as I spend time alone with my thoughts. From thinking of how eager I was to go back to my bed to think about the struggle that I was facing or had faced.
The latter always comes more than what I want. I always reminisce and think about what I have learnt from that plot in my life. What was my mistake, and how has it changed me as a person?
Is this my story? A proof that I have lived a life?
A story that I could tell someone with pride and fondness as I venture through my memories. That brings laughter and tears threaded into a life lesson for others.
Wouldn’t that be beautiful? To tell a story.
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