observer by day, maniac by night, dreamer by choice, misfit by destiny, lover by chance.
depending on which time period and frame of reference you’ve met me, i could be anything. i shift identities. i’m the girl that timidly smiles at the cashier and i’m the girl that strikes up a conversation and learns your life in a minute’s time. sometimes i am silent and sometimes i am in the middle of the dance floor asking you to move to the rhythm of chaos with me. the problem with growth is that change complements instability. ask me what i stand for, and i’ll write you a novel. ask me who i am, and that depends on how wild my emotions are running. what i’m trying to convey is that i’m not entirely sure. however, i am sure of this. i am sure that madness has taken over me, and i couldn’t ask for anything else. i’ve already died, i am already in heaven. or is this hell? this would be a great question to philosophize over tea. ask me who i am, and i can compile you a list of everything that i resonate with. but for simplicity’s sake, i am a writer. i am a poet more than anything and i live in a secret language of emotions.
i write to understand. i write to know what matters. meaning is revealed when these words crawl onto a page and unveil a story derived my heart. writing keeps me sane. writing saves me from my nothingness, from my too muchness. i want to capture the fleeting present moment. it is in my nature to obsessively jot down these thoughts before it becomes outdated. contrarily, i write what i can’t seem to forget. i write what my heart carries, what my mind translates. writing is my racing pulse.
i don’t write to construct an argument. i write to evoke emotion. i’m not trying to tell it like it is, because, the truth is that nothing is just as it seems. i’m not trying to organize my thoughts, i’m trying to find some sensibility. i’m neither trying to be excessively wordy nor harshly brief. i don’t want to file away these feelings for safekeeping, i want to indulge in them. on the other hand, i write to feel at peace, to tame the voice that screams, “write me down! write me down! hurry! i’m moving on! did you catch that?”
the air i breathe contains a melody, so when i inhale music notes, i exhale a sonata. i write to comprehend the walls closing in, to glorify the liberation. i write to meet and greet with my fears. i write to bid my shadows goodbye. my writing, like my wardrobe, tells me, “this is how i feel today.”
i write to know that i exist. it’s the only certain way that i know i’m alive.