I know they always say it, but quand même, all the world’s a stage. I used to love acting, until I finally realized I wasn’t very good at it, and I felt that I encountered personalities that so often overwhelmed me. I did like the feeling of becoming someone else, of living a different life for a while, of perhaps assuming more strength, less fear, of having a defined place and purpose, I was even told what to think, the words were written for me.

I’ve always written. I just never gave it much thought; it was so natural. But lately, it’s practically the only place where I feel welcome; I come to simultaneously lose myself and find myself. And it’s still like I’m on stage, I assume this voice that’s created somewhere between my head, my heart and my hands. And as I sit here, I’m overwhelmed, it falls from my finger tips before my very eyes, and again I feel I’m someone else though this time, the feelings are mine, they’re honest, or at least, what I sincerely want to believe are within my reach, so honest, in fact, that when I look back at what I’ve written it’s as though I’m reading the words, experiencing the sentiment, for the first time, still determining the character, learning through her perspective.

It’s also a distraction from this outside world that constantly seems to push me away despite honest attempt, genuine desire. It makes me wait. Holds things in front of me that I try to grasp; holds things in front of me that disappear. But this, writing, has remained, through it all, I’ve discovered in words a loyal companion, dependable and true, especially in these hours when I can’t sleep, and I can’t wake up; just when I feel like I’m living, when I take a breath and acknowledge what’s really in my heart, I look up, and find it’s gone, and yet in its absence, I feel it was here, and with my words, thankfully, I’ve marked its presence, clenched its memory, and grasped what I truly believed, was its potential.