Back to Writing

In the quiet hours of the night, I sit alone with my thoughts. Dusting off the old Google doc in hopes that I have something to say. My friends would laugh at the thought of me not having something to say at any given time, but between me and the keyboard, there is something that feels more sacred. It became my oasis and my place of retreat. It is my Gethsemane more than my Eden because it is the place I go to pray and plead and agonize and sweat blood onto the page before seeking the death of something that turns into a rebirth or a resurrection. After seeing friends make their art, write their stories and film their passions, there is an ache in my bones to get back to where I started. Writing to simply get words out, to scratch an itch that can’t fully be defined, but reminds me of my humanity. Writing to rid myself of the day’s many worries and remind myself that my story, however strained or cringey, but yet ever-evolving, is still important no matter how many bear witness to it.