The seasons of my life are marked by a sad heap of abused journals, marred at the binding by my ever-fluctuating desires and regrets to document what I struggle with, what I think, what I feel. And despite their suffering, they are emptied.

I love writing. I used to do it all the time. It’s a very intimate, vulnerable thing for me to dictate what happens within my introspective moments and those humbling learning experiences. Now, I rarely can find words to match thoughts. It’s something I’m really, really not good at anymore.

I’ve attempted three different online blogs, countless journals, and a private Instagram account. I posted a few things here on Medium out of brokenness a while ago, and those have bit the dust as well. Because I’ve changed so drastically over the past year and my future plans are ever-fluid, writing and posting anything seems to be a risk.

Right now, I have eight drafts sitting on this app that I revisit from time to time. They may never see the light of day, but at least they exist somewhere. I ackowledge the things about me that I wish weren’t true. I put them in words in attempt to diagnose and search myself for the root cause of the things I need to externalize and work out. Right now, the answer is to keep writing. But I think, for now, I’ll be keeping my messes to myself.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.