Why am I writing?
Every now and then, this question crosses my mind. Whenever I'm alone, when there's nothing to do, when my mind has enough space to figure out things I don't particularly think about, I ask myself. What am I writing for? Honestly, I've started writing without a reason in mind. But now that I think about it, maybe I'm just tired. Keeping up with the silence is a torture. I have no one to talk to, nor can I talk about such things so easily. I don't like the idea of someone seeing me defenseless even with those closest to me. Maybe because I haven't tried opening up with someone before. I just keep burying my worries then only grieve for a moment. I don't talk about it and settle it by forgetting. No witness, just me, the only critique of my own opinions and actions. But standing alone is not an easy feat. Without anything to lean on and my sanity leaking out, I find words comforting. They speak for me and attract people similar to my pain. I'm not alone anymore.
© 2021 Pola Martinez