Venessa Ramsaroop

One word: Passion. That undying, unscathed desire to create; that’s why I am a writer.  The bliss to inspire, reach, touch and engrave a life through my experiences, neuroses, perceptions and feelings; that’s why I’m a writer. It’s said mindfulness, empathy, embodiment of a change and a purpose leads your direction at a scope and pace of speed for you to feel fulfilled. Writing liberates my mind and soul. That’s how I know writing was for me. I’m human. No latitude of research, Big Five personality test (OCEAN) score of high Openness (87) and First Class Degree in Marketing gives me as innovation, cumulative learning and intravenous actualization as Maslow (1959) terms it as writing.

I was born to write. God showed me my skill in poetry, short stories and commentaries. You know you love what you do and do what you love when you wake up every single day energetic, enthusiastic, empowered and joyful to create a piece of your heart full of thought and art. I’ll be a little less than subversive here but I do experience multiple ebbs and flows in my writing energies as anyone else does. I’ve been in customer service since I genuinely find purity, harmony and natural balance of my skills in time management, branding and public relations to add my creativity there but something did not effectively synergise for me.

Writing was a pivotal change for me. I experienced a catalytic catharsis from negativity by dissolving my emotional lows. Thus, even though I’m at entry level working experience; being a writer bequeathed personal strengths of emotional and self-awareness and transparency to communicate both the good and bad truthfully. We live in times of change and I manage change well. I command English language well. It was only natural I was born to write. So many people work to pay the bills, to send the kids to school, to “get by” but they feel frustrated, anxious and redundancy. I became a writer and nothing is lethargic; that’s how I know it’s for me.

I know I’m only twenty three (23) but I feel happier, soulful and joy than a millionaire. I am a millionaire in my own right because I am love. My work is love. I will be published someday. I have attached a piece for perusal on page 3.

I’m grateful and thankful for your time and energies in scoring my piece.


Falling abruptly upon a sullied, distant reminder;

Simply, singly, etching subconsciously to nostalgia.

The most beautiful, thrusting memories seem to soothe a lingered soul-

To penance upon self-inflicted emptiness.


Eloquence subsides in past failures of the heart-

To immaculately feel more than heaven and earth whilst enduring hell.

It was a good run; a pure one filled with more love than you or I could foster.

Loving more than those older than us or smarter than us.


Alas, the imperfection in stupidity is belief time periodically grants favours-

Her love indeed was my sole, purest and truest luxury;

The months were a doctrine attested to a resilient affirmation of confidence.

Half trust what you see; distrust what you hear.


She wrote me notes, letters, poems, books about our forever she proclaimed,

About places to go, people to see, memories to make, marriage and the like;

Reflections in the heart grant the bittersweet realism that she’s beauty.

A beauty whose time elapsed and I loved with a love more than love itself.

By: Venessa Ramsaroop

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