Today I feel like writing.
Today I feel like writing.But not a poem, not a story, not a chapter — just writing.
I haven’t written in a few days, maybe a week, because in that time I’ve been doing nothing but simply living… surviving… existing. Tending to my wounds — the ones no one can see — and making sure I put new Band-Aids on them, wrap them tightly, nurse them back to health. I’ve been talking to them, telling them I’m here, that everything will be okay one day.
I’ve been sitting with my inner child, consoling her, whispering that whatever happened this month was not her fault. That she wasn’t abandoned. That I’m still here. That she’s safe… even on the days when we don’t feel safe at all.
Today is the kind of day where I just write whatever my mind spits out.
Maybe it’ll sound sad. Maybe funny. Maybe a little red and messy.
Maybe no one will ever see it — but I know the words piling up in my brain need to be put somewhere. And what better place than here?
I have this huge problem where I don’t want to be seen, but I desperately want to be perceived.
To be seen on a deeper level would heal parts of me that still lie open to the world, bleeding slowly under the surface.
Lately I’ve been sitting with this feeling… this notion of foolishness toward myself for admitting love to someone who clearly didn’t feel the same.
Unrequited love — an old familiar ghost — but this time it was different.
It wasn’t that I thought this person loved me back. Honestly, part of me knew they viewed me differently. What I felt was something soft, humble, sweet. Gentle in a way I didn’t expect. Innocent, almost. A love that grew inside me like a tiny seed of familiarity. A sense of knowing. A connection. And I associated that with love.
I’m not ashamed to tell people I love them. That I care for them. That I wish them well.
That has never brought me shame, and it doesn’t scare me.
There are no rules for love — except the ones people create because they’re terrified of feeling anything real. Why are there rules for telling someone they matter? Why do people act like affection must be earned or rationed or approved?
If someone renders themselves special in your life — even briefly — why wouldn’t you say it?
And I’m not ashamed to admit that even if people walk out of my life, or even if I’m the one who closes the door, I will still love them in some way. I don’t think that’s wrong. I think it’s beautiful. To love, to have loved — it’s one of the few things that still feels sacred in this world.
What feels sad, what feels dark, is the number of people who can’t share or show or experience love.
That’s a wound deeper than depression.
What do you mean you can’t show love?
Can’t say you love something?
Can’t process that warm, human, universal feeling?
How do you walk across a world that is held together — barely — by the threads of people who choose to care?
Maybe this is rambling. Maybe it’s just banter. Maybe it doesn’t make sense.
And that’s okay. Writing doesn’t always have to make sense.
I am simply processing. Thinking.
I have a whole word salad in my brain begging for a place to land, a place to exist — the same thing I’m trying to find for myself.
A place to be.
A place to stay.
I hope I eventually find my counterpart — someone like me, someone who doesn’t hesitate to share their good feelings, their hard ones, their ugly ones, their joy, their grief… and their love.
Or maybe I’m destined to be a passing object in people’s lives, a small flicker of warmth moving through their darkness. Maybe my purpose is to show them the love they never received, to demonstrate what real love looks like — even if only for a moment.
A brief moment in time.
And at least they’ll carry that with them forever.
