Prezly Writes

Here’s a letter to my dear writers.

Writing,

It can soothe us,
carry us elsewhere,
help us dream.

More than that,
it often holds the answers
we always needed to uncover.

Words flourish, like a plant unfolding with the sun.
Spilled on paper, they become seeds of presence.

Each line whispers: “This is me, with my soul and my dreams.”
A door opens, for others to witness,
for others to join.

Together, we write ourselves free.
Together, we walk into places we didn’t know we could reach.

This act is not about performance.
Like all art, it is a bridge between human souls.
Though personal, it always holds something universal.
It is meant to make us feel, see, and understand.

For me, writing has become a ritual.
I light a candle, as if I’m lighting my mind.
I play a soft, haunting song, like Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex,
to hear the melody of the soul.

I then take a slow breath.
And in that moment,
I can be me again.

The words come to find me,
or perhaps I find them first.

What this practice stirs in me
can barely be described.
I become a flow that travels,
electric, yet tangible.

Emotions and questions pass through me,
and somehow,
I answer.

I use this ritual as I paint as well.
The two expressions, they mirror each other.
With my brush, I can speak.
I let my hand move on its own,
guided only by the colors that call me.

And then, quietly,
my soul whispers for me.

To express yourself,
you never had to be good.
You only had to be.

Artwork by Prezlywrites