Hey. what’s up. hello.

It's been a while since I've laid in bed, laptop resting ontop of me, mind churning to put words down on a page. I really see our writing as the most vulnerable versions of ourselves. My words are a direct route to what's going on inside my head, and it's intimidating. It's intimidating for whomever could read these words, and it's intimidating for me to put something down that's worth being read by myself and other people. I have so much repsect for those who are able to write and write and share and share and not be bothered by it all. Or hung up on it. People who just create for the sake of creating. I think that writing used to be like that for me, up until I thought about who may or may not be listening. Then again, it's not really the fear of other people that makes me stop. It's the fear of my future self reading through words that make her cringe, asking herself how she once thought that. Of it not being any good. A fear of mediocrity.

Maybe it's a blessing that I'm able to look back at writing from a few years ago and be able to understand its shortcomings. Understand where ideas weren't yet fully developed. Understand that I am a human being who is allowed this act of expression. It's how we grow.

Nonetheless, I'm back at a point in my life where I feel like I need writing. And, hell, maybe writing needs me, too.