About Me — Fareeha Mohammed
A medical student , trying to navigate through life peacefully.
If I rightfully remember, troubles made me a writer. Pain made me a poet. And life made me a seeker.
Since I was a kid, I have been a reader. I loved reading comics, then later on it was crime thrillers. And now I say, my soul has aged, for my friends still enjoy detective books, when I no longer find any adventure in it. It’s either romance or spiritual or maybe even a history book. All this became a mere escape for me.
I remember trying to ace the entrance exam, NEET, to get into a government medical school. Amidst all the chaos in life, I had to focus. Focus on studies, pump in energy when I was clearly drained, put in as much effort as I could. It wasn’t easy. No beautiful things are achieved easy in life. I needed an outlet. Even without me knowing, writing eased my heart. It came naturally. Brought a natural sense of liberation. And maybe that is when I clearly understood my potential. Even though I used to write before, that seemed the point of realization. Then it became my therapy. To write, to let it all out. To contribute, to be a source of ease. Maybe I could become a cool breeze, or maybe a scent of happiness. I am willing to make whatever it may be, even a small contribution to this darkening world.
Some insecurities are just deep rooted. So deep rooted, sometimes one cannot realize. I am aware I have my own set of insecurities. When I was about 13 or 14, I used to wonder how can one be insecure? For the lord has blessed everyone so much, in different ways. But as I grew up, each person I came across was fighting their own battles. Very few I have seen trying their best to not let their insecurities get in their way, in their relations, in their mind. It isn’t easy. What are these thoughts, I wonder sometimes.? How much power do our thoughts have? Something so trivial, yet it shapes our life.
When it gets too much for me, I sit under the sky, pour out all that clouds my mind. A poem most of time, births out of my predicament. Then I stare at those words, written so clearly, speaking to me of me, of my subconscious. Ah! The power of words, the power of writing!
Being a writer means to be responsible for the words we articulate, the stories we make, the hidden morals we share. We gotta be liable for the allegations we make, for the time the reader spares and the truth we lay barren for them to stare.
You can change the narrative. You can manipulate the truth into falsehood. Mold the reality into an entirely different story. We gotta be aware of the omnipotence of writing. If we stay oblivious to it, we might as well get carried away.
So let the pens speak, let the truth be written and may our words never lead people astray!
