5…4…3…2…1, it’s final and she decided to walk towards the river which seemed waiting for her. She took a deep breath and climbed on. The corners of her mouth tipped upwards. Was she scared seeing down? She was on the bridge, ready to take the throw, but she wasn’t done living yet, she thought. It was not the softness of the bed that kept her from sleep or the smell of sheets, but the pills and the water glass, kept her awake. She left a paper with a note ‘ No one understands me, it is not my fault’, the paper had a few water blotches; those were her tears after she took the pills. She was just thirteen; she had so much of her life ahead; perhaps being born as a girl was the slip-up of her existence.
I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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