I started writing for a reason. When feelings overwhelmed me and I didn’t know how to deal with them I wrote them down. I discovered that putting my pencil to paper made me feel better. It became second nature. Writing was my way to cope. Angry, scared, frustrated, confused, happy or anything other emotion sent me straight to a notebook. When asked about my feelings I wrote them down, never spoke them. This resulted in thought out, well articulated explanations. I ventured into poetry. I wasn’t very good, in my opinion. But I quit before I graduated from highschool. I eventually quit writing. I still picked up a notebook from time to time, but I quit writing with the fervor that I used to.
I find myself having cravings. I don’t know what else to call them. I have a hunger to write more than what I’ve been writing. To dig deeper. But I haven’t. I punk out. I’m honestly scared of what I’ll uncover about myself. I think that it’s about time that I woman up. I’ve run out of excuses. I have nothing holding me back but me. I don’t know where this journey is going to lead. I don’t know if the result will be rants, poems, stories or something that I can’t explain. I do know that the journey will be well documented at all times. If that means writing on my arm until I get to paper, so be it. I’m ready.