When did I stop writing?

And, why?
When did I decide that what I had to say did not deserve to be said?
When did I start convincing myself that I had nothing worthwhile go say? That my thoughts did not deserve to be expressed?

I could pinpoint the exact year. I can visualise every feeling of self-doubt, self-censure and self-derision that I've inflicted on myself over the years. I can recount countless instances where I've chosen to bury down what I had to say rather than express it and face the realities such expression would bring.

But now I ask, finally - who is that serving? The world, that is happy not to have another's voice join in on its cacophony? The people around me, who will no sooner reach out to provide reassurances to me than I will verbally ask for them? It's a no-win situation. All I know is that when I pen down words, my soul soars and my life feels alive again. I am deciding not to deprive myself of that feeling anymore. No matter how I've tried to bury it down in the depths of my personality, it still rises to meet my call when it hears me. And that is who I really am, and I'm not depriving her anymore.