writer

There is only one heart to hold every word. Joy and sorrow both find their way into ordinary days, and that's what makes it so difficult.

What did they really mean by that?
Maybe I shouldn't have said that one thing.

I replay those thoughts until I'm exhausted. Yet before I know it, I've forgotten them again and started searching for connection once more.

We live in a convenient age. The moment a question comes to mind, I can search for an answer in seconds, almost as if it had always been my own. I can even ask AI to tell me the name of what I'm feeling.

But somehow, none of it feels quite right.

I write, then erase. I find a chord, then start over. In a room with thin walls, I quietly brush the strings of my guitar, careful not to let the song belong to anyone just yet.

These hopeless days are spent gathering the words that overflow and turning them into songs.

Someday, I'll hand you a song in place of the words I could never say.

Writer.