Maybe This Is What I Was Trying to Say
I've spent a lot of time trying to explain myself. Why I go quiet. Why I sometimes want to be alone. Why I can be surrounded by people and still feel distant. Why I want to be invited even when I know I'll say no. Why I sometimes don't want questions. Why I can look perfectly fine while feeling completely different inside. Why I find comfort in strangers. Why I go to places alone and still imagine what it would be like to have someone beside me. Why sometimes I feel too much. And sometimes, almost nothing. I've tried to find the right words for all of it. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe that's why I started writing. Because a thought doesn't always need to be solved. Sometimes it just needs somewhere to exist. A sentence. A page. A window. A place where it can sit without being judged or corrected. Maybe that's what these pieces are. Little attempts to make sense of things that don't always make sense. Little moments I noticed. Things I couldn't ...
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