Writing is my first love. I basically taught myself how to write when I was five years old, bugging my dad to tell me the spelling of different words after I sounded them out. It is where I excelled in school. I was devastated in college when I got a C on my first essay and I cried. How is it that I love doing and spend time perfecting was no longer exemplary? I worked my ass off to improve, and I did. I was getting As soon enough with dedication, tutoring, and having multiple sets of eyes on my work. Over the years, I stopped writing and then would pick it up during times of heartbreak. Knowing the relief I got from writing, my love was relegated to bringing comfort and was no longer the source of my joy.

I started writing last year, and then I put it down and led myself through some tragic moments. This year, after the peak of tragedy, and amid rebounding, I started writing again. And this time, beautiful, loving words. Some describing pain, other pleasure. Ultimately, reclaiming my long-lost love. Even though I put her down, she came back to me with open arms and I have consistently been and love her everyday for the past several months.

I’ve talked about her a little bit, because I keep the things I love close to my chest. I’ve only exposed a small bit of her to you, because, I’m afraid.

She is so beautiful, raw, and exposing, and she exposes me. She shows my vulnerabilities, and it scares me. I do not want her judged by anyone. I want to protect my heart, and I am finding balance as to how to share and guard at the same time. Is this possible? To be everything at once? To shield and share? No, its as if my wounds are coming to haunt me.

My true love is writing.

Writing makes me feel alive, when I’m not writing, I think about writing, when I am reading in my head I am writing responses. I envied those that can just write and share it. My words are sacred to me.

I want to keep close the things that I love the most. Only give a few sprinkles here and there. But it is time to stop sprinkling.

Writing this made me cry.

Writing is my magic.

Its where I can create the entire galaxy, where I can birth new worlds, where time ceases to exist.

I know I love it, so why does it scare me?

Because it is where I bare my soul.

I can write about writing all day.

Comment below, Is there something that lights you up this way. What is it? Are you still doing it, or are you on a break?

Complete this sentence: I feel the best when I’m __________.

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