This is the first writing piece that I’m working on that isn’t due for a grade.
I haven’t focused on my passion for creative writing since ten months ago. I’ve done little things here and there, but it’s mostly to escape from life and the internal battles of depression and anxiety that I struggle with. This past year I’ve had to question part of my identity which is answering:
I haven’t focused on my passion for creative writing since ten months ago. I’ve done little things here and there, but it’s mostly to escape from life and the internal battles of depression and anxiety that I struggle with. This past year I’ve had to question part of my identity which is answering:
“Am I actually a writer?”
Now, that might be a confusing question to ask because clearly I’m on BALM and I’m typing out this article as we speak. Yet in my head, my insecurities love to fight with me, and I put myself down whenever I do write something, whether it be for myself or something to put out. To give some insight, when I do write something, I look at the words with disgust and that turns to negative comments that are hard to escape from. To escape those negative thoughts, I then turn to writing, but they only fuel my thoughts even more, so it’s been a never ending cycle.
So in order to protect myself and escape from the passion that I used to love, I say,
“No, I’m not a writer."
It’s funny, to me at least. Just six months ago, I was asked what’s one thing I was proud of about myself. And I told everyone, “I’m proud to call myself a writer.” It’s funny to me how quickly things changed.
So in “celebration” of my negative mind winning this battle, I’m going to share the work that I’ve been keeping to myself. Pieces of writing that I probably never looked at again, writings that I probably hated writing. So I’ll be looking at them again to share.
“Writing in a Plane Part 1”
JUNE 18TH, 2023
There's something so comforting when the silence covers everything like a blanket. You look out the window of your car or occasionally peer up to look at your father and brother, the ones you lived with for the past 17 years. Before long, the hushed conversation of directions and car repairs will be no more. So you take in what you can for the meanwhile.
When growing up, there was never a clue in my mind with what I wanted to do. I took a small step in the time with general goals any general person could have. Go to high school, get good grades, make your parents proud, get into a college. The only thing on that list is now college. Thinking about it now, I never put much thought into it. It was another small step in the way. But in the same way it isn't, it's change. It's growth. It's different.
But as you know me, I never go towards the big steps. I hop over the small crack in the concrete before leaping head first to the other side of a mountain.
For right now, I'll enjoy the small mumbles on the plane, letting that become my new blanket for the meanwhile.
When growing up, there was never a clue in my mind with what I wanted to do. I took a small step in the time with general goals any general person could have. Go to high school, get good grades, make your parents proud, get into a college. The only thing on that list is now college. Thinking about it now, I never put much thought into it. It was another small step in the way. But in the same way it isn't, it's change. It's growth. It's different.
But as you know me, I never go towards the big steps. I hop over the small crack in the concrete before leaping head first to the other side of a mountain.
For right now, I'll enjoy the small mumbles on the plane, letting that become my new blanket for the meanwhile.
This was written on the first day of my summer program for creative writing. The program was a little taste into my future life, the future life that I was dreading a bit. So in order to confront that feeling, I wrote about my family, something to keep me comfortable and to pass time. Looking at this now, there’s still some sort of bittersweet comfort. I'm much closer now to the next part of my life, but I know that I’m taking the memories of this current life with me. I won’t be technically alone.
“Writing in a Plane Part 2”
JUNE 18TH, 2023
I always found the comfort of silence. Especially the silence in a car ride while my brother drives. It's that type of day, where everything almost stops for a second. There's only my brother, me and the silence. Some people prefer quiet chatter or small mumbles. Some prefer the booming speaker as they listen to their favorite song. I fit into the group of silence.
Silence is my peace. My time to rest.
The reason I like silence? My mind is already a chaotic mess of its own. The screaming, the pain, the yearning. It's all up in here. It's like screamo music, 24/7.
Silence is my peace. My time to rest.
The reason I like silence? My mind is already a chaotic mess of its own. The screaming, the pain, the yearning. It's all up in here. It's like screamo music, 24/7.
With this second part, this silence in the plane gave me inspiration to write a piece that talked about how much I preferred silence. I mentioned parts of my life that brought me silence. I didn’t get too deep into it, just keeping it simple with the most specific example being around my brother.
“What IS This feeling”
JUNE, 2023
When will I ever experience romantic love? When will I ever experience heartbreak? All the times that I had a partner, it never felt honest. It was just another face passing through the street, never to be seen again. There’s nothing wrong with me, right? Is there a hole bleeding out from my heart? No, there isn’t. I’m just moving through the waves of life independently.
During last summer, I took a writing class at Rhodes College. The class was meant for me to practice my creative writing and to see if I really wanted to pursue it during college. Spoiler alert: I decided not to pursue it in a college. It’s probably the current mindset I have that doesn’t want me to chase after writing.
Regardless, the assignment was to write a micro short story under one hundred words. There was never a specific genre or theme tied to it, but based on the examples given to the class, most of us assumed the theme had to be about love. By then, I had grown more comfortable with my identity of being on the aromantic spectrum, so I wanted to write about my experience with love. This is one of the pieces of writing that I enjoy looking back at. It shows a raw piece of me, a piece that I’m not afraid of hiding. It’s short, but it explains the least hidden side of me.
Regardless, the assignment was to write a micro short story under one hundred words. There was never a specific genre or theme tied to it, but based on the examples given to the class, most of us assumed the theme had to be about love. By then, I had grown more comfortable with my identity of being on the aromantic spectrum, so I wanted to write about my experience with love. This is one of the pieces of writing that I enjoy looking back at. It shows a raw piece of me, a piece that I’m not afraid of hiding. It’s short, but it explains the least hidden side of me.
“depressed?”
JUNE 15, 2023
You’re sitting here in your room, the room that holds you by the throat. You wanna scream, but all you let out is the silent tears. What happened this time? Doubting you have friends? Yeah, that seems about it. So, you’re scrolling through TikTok sounds and typing here, as if I were your friend. That’s sad, don’t you think? This is all so sad. Why can’t you realize the truth? That you do have friends. They care about you, they’re just busy. Get yourself busy. But you’re scared of getting busy. Because if you’re busy, they’ll notice and won’t bother you anymore. But they won’t. They care. They’re your friends. Right?
Maybe it’s best to cry your heart out. In the room that binds you with chains. Maybe the room is your friend instead. The cold, dark space that will always be with you. And keep watching your ‘sad’ TikTok. Yeah, that will make anything better. It’ll make everything better. Or just reach out. You can reach out, stop suffering in silence. But I’m tired. I don’t wanna reach out anymore. Why do I have to be the first one to reach out? Just suffer then. That will make everything better.
Maybe it’s best to cry your heart out. In the room that binds you with chains. Maybe the room is your friend instead. The cold, dark space that will always be with you. And keep watching your ‘sad’ TikTok. Yeah, that will make anything better. It’ll make everything better. Or just reach out. You can reach out, stop suffering in silence. But I’m tired. I don’t wanna reach out anymore. Why do I have to be the first one to reach out? Just suffer then. That will make everything better.
One thing that I really struggled with in my college program was making friends. This made me overthink every memory I had with them. This made me not get closer to them, a sort of self destruction method. If I can recall, I wrote this piece when I was mentally stuck in the dorm room. I couldn’t force myself to come out, no matter what. In order to calm myself, I wrote this piece. When I get stuck in those dark moments, I separate myself into two sides. I start referring to one side as ‘you’ and the other side as ‘I’. I noticed it in some of my sadder pieces of writing, it gives me some sense of security.
Or maybe it’s me trying to be edgy? I don’t know, I’ll probably write about that too.
Or maybe it’s me trying to be edgy? I don’t know, I’ll probably write about that too.
Personal statement
september, 2023
Solo hay tres de ustedes.“There’s only three of you.” The words took me out of my daydream. For some reason, my dad decided to have all his important conversations in the car, the only time my brothers and I all listened. I was planning to tune him out, but he kept going on about how the only support for me was my brothers and vice versa. He was speaking as if anyone outside of the family was irrelevant for our future.
He constantly hounded me with lessons I didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t just about support outside of family, but how I should act as a girl. A girl shouldn’t have short hair, so I cut it off. A girl of my culture shouldn’t be thinking about college, so I pushed myself in school. A girl should think about having a husband, so I closed off the possibility from my head. A girl should only share problems with her family, so I invested in friendships.
My dad believed I was rebelling. I saw it as using my voice to assert what I wanted. When that didn’t work, I closed myself off. I packed up my thoughts, feelings, and desires into boxes. I kept friendship in one, packed with memories at the arcade and school, education in another, with the path to college, my interest in psychology and passion for film studies, and my family in its own special place. Keeping everything separate led to a cycle of anger: my family didn’t understand me, I got angry so I hid my feelings, so my family further didn’t understand me.
Over time, it became clear that my anger was getting worse. I had frequent meetings with my school counselor who eventually called my parents and recommended that I talk to a therapist. “Terapeuta” was a foreign word to my family. Whenever they heard the word, they would scoff and say family was enough. We could all rely on one another and just keep our problems in that family box. But it was clear that it wasn’t enough; my anger already slipped out. So I pleaded, insisting that I needed help. They finally caved in.
Talking through my feelings helped me see things more clearly. I realized my dad had his own set of boxes, so I started to ask him about his life during our car rides together. He talked about being raised in Mexico, where he had many siblings and they were taught to be each other’s sole support. When he came to America, that was taken away. When his brother came, he thought he could regain that sense of home, but their relationship fell apart. He was opening his boxes to me, so I started to open mine. I began talking about college, bringing up that I didn’t want to be only a wife, and sharing my passion for writing short stories. I educated him about comments he made about women and told him that he shouldn’t judge people for their choices. When he brings up husbands, I still ignore him; that will be a problem for me in the future.
Solo hay tres de ustedes. Those words used to be the chip on my shoulder, but now they mean so much more. My father just wanted to make something positive for my brothers and me. Once we started opening up to one another, we were able to share our struggles and see each other eye to eye. When I was able to share what I wanted, they were able to accept me. Now when I come across anyone new, I try to present my true self, knowing that when people can see me for who I am, I can build my support system around me. While I know I’ll always have my family, I now know hay mas de tres. There’s more than three.
He constantly hounded me with lessons I didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t just about support outside of family, but how I should act as a girl. A girl shouldn’t have short hair, so I cut it off. A girl of my culture shouldn’t be thinking about college, so I pushed myself in school. A girl should think about having a husband, so I closed off the possibility from my head. A girl should only share problems with her family, so I invested in friendships.
My dad believed I was rebelling. I saw it as using my voice to assert what I wanted. When that didn’t work, I closed myself off. I packed up my thoughts, feelings, and desires into boxes. I kept friendship in one, packed with memories at the arcade and school, education in another, with the path to college, my interest in psychology and passion for film studies, and my family in its own special place. Keeping everything separate led to a cycle of anger: my family didn’t understand me, I got angry so I hid my feelings, so my family further didn’t understand me.
Over time, it became clear that my anger was getting worse. I had frequent meetings with my school counselor who eventually called my parents and recommended that I talk to a therapist. “Terapeuta” was a foreign word to my family. Whenever they heard the word, they would scoff and say family was enough. We could all rely on one another and just keep our problems in that family box. But it was clear that it wasn’t enough; my anger already slipped out. So I pleaded, insisting that I needed help. They finally caved in.
Talking through my feelings helped me see things more clearly. I realized my dad had his own set of boxes, so I started to ask him about his life during our car rides together. He talked about being raised in Mexico, where he had many siblings and they were taught to be each other’s sole support. When he came to America, that was taken away. When his brother came, he thought he could regain that sense of home, but their relationship fell apart. He was opening his boxes to me, so I started to open mine. I began talking about college, bringing up that I didn’t want to be only a wife, and sharing my passion for writing short stories. I educated him about comments he made about women and told him that he shouldn’t judge people for their choices. When he brings up husbands, I still ignore him; that will be a problem for me in the future.
Solo hay tres de ustedes. Those words used to be the chip on my shoulder, but now they mean so much more. My father just wanted to make something positive for my brothers and me. Once we started opening up to one another, we were able to share our struggles and see each other eye to eye. When I was able to share what I wanted, they were able to accept me. Now when I come across anyone new, I try to present my true self, knowing that when people can see me for who I am, I can build my support system around me. While I know I’ll always have my family, I now know hay mas de tres. There’s more than three.
I know, this is more like a chunk instead of a piece of me, but I felt if I only showed a snippet of my personal statement, I would be neglecting the growth or struggle that I went through just to write this piece. I didn’t spend four months and twelve drafts on this piece for nothing. Well, I actually had to spend eighteen years of living to write about my life in such a short amount of words, but I won’t be technical right now. This is another piece of writing that I’m proud of. I haven’t looked at it since college application season ended, but it still reflects who I am today. I still hold this lesson to be true, which may conflict with my “Depressed?” writing. But that’s the beauty of my being: There’s moments where I conflict with myself, and I can only move forward with the lessons that I make. Even if I mentioned how I couldn’t reach out to people anymore, I’ll turn it around and do the opposite of that.
untitled piece
october 2, 2023
You're at peace with him.
He's at peace with you.
He hears your crazy ideas.
You listen to his.
But never with judging looks.
He's there at your darkest times.
He's there when you shine your brightest.
He never fails to show up.
He's your muse,
He's never once placed you a box like others have done before
He's different.
A good different.
He's at peace with you.
He hears your crazy ideas.
You listen to his.
But never with judging looks.
He's there at your darkest times.
He's there when you shine your brightest.
He never fails to show up.
He's your muse,
He's never once placed you a box like others have done before
He's different.
A good different.
First of all, I would like to say, I would never refer to myself as a poet. This may look like a poem, but I also refuse to call it that. There’s times when an emotion I feel is so strong that I get a spark of inspiration. My love for this man is no different. Before, I admitted that I was going through life independently, and I still identify with the aromantic spectrum. Yet it feels good to rely on another person, and I’m glad he’s that guy.
Deidamia Credieu
january 7, 2024
The sun was slowly setting, the yellow kissing the sky goodbye as it washed away, becoming a soft orange. The orange seemed to fade away too, becoming a mystic blue. The orange and blue mixed, never touching one another, as if they knew it wasn’t meant to be done.
Within Ephark, there was a buzz, the fairy lights lighting up their path as they rushed to the city square. It was a bi-monthly Chrona festival, where almost all of the townsfolk came out to celebrate in a community. It would last for one night, causing people to believe they have to participate since it only happens once every two months. Stands would be set up, selling food, items, or stories. Plays would appear on stage to entertain both kids and adults alike. It was the one part of Ephark that never caused destruction, everyone forgetting their social standing for one moment. Of course, most of the people who did join the festivals were middle to low-class. The upper class stuck to their houses and celebrated there. Nonetheless, it created excitement for the townspeople as they rushed to see the main act of the night.
It was Deidamia Credieu who was the guest of honor. Ever since she was a part of the Credieu family, she volunteered to speak for the public, cultivating their minds into the stories of Chrona. She enjoyed seeing their faces, all in awe as if they were young sheep. That was one of the many reasons she kept coming to the festivals, seeing the people’s reaction to her magic. It gave her a thrill, knowing that she was capable of doing something so simple as that.
Her ‘loyal’ guards were by her side, Luan taking the right as Giselle took the left. Deidamia would throw a small fit if they weren’t in that position, the guards never knew why, but they never questioned it.
Within Ephark, there was a buzz, the fairy lights lighting up their path as they rushed to the city square. It was a bi-monthly Chrona festival, where almost all of the townsfolk came out to celebrate in a community. It would last for one night, causing people to believe they have to participate since it only happens once every two months. Stands would be set up, selling food, items, or stories. Plays would appear on stage to entertain both kids and adults alike. It was the one part of Ephark that never caused destruction, everyone forgetting their social standing for one moment. Of course, most of the people who did join the festivals were middle to low-class. The upper class stuck to their houses and celebrated there. Nonetheless, it created excitement for the townspeople as they rushed to see the main act of the night.
It was Deidamia Credieu who was the guest of honor. Ever since she was a part of the Credieu family, she volunteered to speak for the public, cultivating their minds into the stories of Chrona. She enjoyed seeing their faces, all in awe as if they were young sheep. That was one of the many reasons she kept coming to the festivals, seeing the people’s reaction to her magic. It gave her a thrill, knowing that she was capable of doing something so simple as that.
Her ‘loyal’ guards were by her side, Luan taking the right as Giselle took the left. Deidamia would throw a small fit if they weren’t in that position, the guards never knew why, but they never questioned it.
This was a more creative writing piece, me stepping my toes into the world of fantasy. I’ve done short story writing before, in my summer program, but I was able to go more into depth with the characters. One of the characters that stood out was Deidamia Credieu. I don’t remember the process of making her, but she came out to be a projection of me. Someone who’s conflicting, someone who you think you know, but they surprise you with new information. She has layers; she’s not just one dimensional. She’s a part of me, and I’m proud of the creation I made.
i understand you
February 27, 2024
I didn't get it at first. What was special about you? Was it about declaring how wrong you were treated by the ones around you? Was it that your beauty was to be displayed, your death forever signifying who you were. There's some irony to it. Your beauty. Your talent. All for what? No one remembers besides how beautiful your death was.
It was said that you sank with no worry in the world. Was it peace? Was it acceptance? Was it just the realization that no one would help you, so you allowed the last breath to be drawn out of you unwillingly? Was that how you felt when he ripped away the purity you had?
Whatever you felt in those last moments, I'll never know. I'll never know why your death must be painted a million times in so many different ways, breathtaking each time. It's morbid. You didn't deserve that.
But if it was a feeling of acceptance. A feeling of defeat, a feeling that no one would understand you even if you tried.. I understand you. I get it now.
Ophelia. I understand you.
It was said that you sank with no worry in the world. Was it peace? Was it acceptance? Was it just the realization that no one would help you, so you allowed the last breath to be drawn out of you unwillingly? Was that how you felt when he ripped away the purity you had?
Whatever you felt in those last moments, I'll never know. I'll never know why your death must be painted a million times in so many different ways, breathtaking each time. It's morbid. You didn't deserve that.
But if it was a feeling of acceptance. A feeling of defeat, a feeling that no one would understand you even if you tried.. I understand you. I get it now.
Ophelia. I understand you.
AP Lit clearly stuck closer to me than I’d like to admit. After a year of taking that class, my self esteem for writing dropped so quickly. I might agree that I did become a better writer after such an intense class, but the amount of times I had a panic attack for my insecurities, I’m not sure if I find it worth it. Regardless, I created a piece about Ophelia and her last moments. Some debate whether she did it as an accident or on purpose, but I took it as a way of defeat. Perhaps she struggled till the very end until she realized it was too late. I took it as that approach and started seeing myself in Ophelia as I continued to write about her.
untitled
March 19, 2024
the head is pounding, the chest is pounding
i’m being suffocated by my own tears, by the ego I tried to fake
it’s not real
“Please please
Lord knows it would be the first time”
first time for what?
what am i waiting for?
i don’t even know at this point
am i better
or am i worse
i wish i couldn't care
but i do
i care a lot
i’m being suffocated by my own tears, by the ego I tried to fake
it’s not real
“Please please
Lord knows it would be the first time”
first time for what?
what am i waiting for?
i don’t even know at this point
am i better
or am i worse
i wish i couldn't care
but i do
i care a lot
I don’t remember ever writing this piece. It was in the google document when I came back to write this article. Clearly, I was listening to the Smiths and my mind was in a state of panic. It worries me a bit since this isn’t how bad my thoughts can go. That’s something I hate about the mental illnesses I have with me. They’ll always be there, in me and in my writing.
i miss you so come back
March 22, 2024
You left me at the worst time, or was it the other way around?
I know why I left, you changed
You went towards a path of violence, I couldn’t watch and allow others to shape who you were
You say that you’re the same, but you only grew worse
I don’t remember who you are
What happened to the guy that was there for me
When I was rejected by my own people?
What happened to the guy who was able to relate
Relate that we spoke with a different accent then the rest
You were there, you helped me realize the hope in the universe
But you were stripped away of the hope from this very same universe
What happened to you, I clung onto you like you were the sun
I looked forward to seeing you like every morning
But things changed
Now I can’t wait for the sun to go away and for the night to come through
You changed so much that I changed
I needed you, but you abandoned me
You allowed me to sink like a rock thrown into the river
Allowing me to drown
I needed you then, why didn’t you come save me?
Why was I left for last?
Why did you change?
But regardless, you can change
You changed once
You can change again, you can be the light in my life again
Come back
Come back because if I keep going, I don’t know what I’ll do
Come back to the west where I’m going
Come back to Earth, you don’t need to fly above the rest
Stop seeing yourself as a god, you’re human like the rest of us
Come back because I miss you
I know why I left, you changed
You went towards a path of violence, I couldn’t watch and allow others to shape who you were
You say that you’re the same, but you only grew worse
I don’t remember who you are
What happened to the guy that was there for me
When I was rejected by my own people?
What happened to the guy who was able to relate
Relate that we spoke with a different accent then the rest
You were there, you helped me realize the hope in the universe
But you were stripped away of the hope from this very same universe
What happened to you, I clung onto you like you were the sun
I looked forward to seeing you like every morning
But things changed
Now I can’t wait for the sun to go away and for the night to come through
You changed so much that I changed
I needed you, but you abandoned me
You allowed me to sink like a rock thrown into the river
Allowing me to drown
I needed you then, why didn’t you come save me?
Why was I left for last?
Why did you change?
But regardless, you can change
You changed once
You can change again, you can be the light in my life again
Come back
Come back because if I keep going, I don’t know what I’ll do
Come back to the west where I’m going
Come back to Earth, you don’t need to fly above the rest
Stop seeing yourself as a god, you’re human like the rest of us
Come back because I miss you
I was hit by inspiration for this piece, having a specific person in mind to write about. I find this piece more funny than serious since this is about Superman. I wanted to challenge myself to write the most upsetting piece about a fictional character. I’m not sure if I succeeded in that aspect, but I like to say I did. Maybe the reason I did was because I related more to this guy than I thought I did. I grew up with him in a sense: my brother would always talk to me about anything superhero related. So maybe the piece I want back is the simpler times I had as a child. But that’s too sad for me, so I’ll keep seeing this piece as funny.
Autocorrect
April 4, 2024
I want to kick the fucking well.
I can't even spell
Yeah I couldn't even spell 'spell'
It just autocorrected
My stupidity is so far that it had to be corrected
I love that I needed to be reminded.
And when I said I wanted to kick the well, I meant the wall.
Yeah. That's it.
I can't even spell
Yeah I couldn't even spell 'spell'
It just autocorrected
My stupidity is so far that it had to be corrected
I love that I needed to be reminded.
And when I said I wanted to kick the well, I meant the wall.
Yeah. That's it.
Another one of my more ‘vent’ writings. Again, not sure if I’m edgy or not. Maybe that’s just the part of me I can’t get rid of yet.
I didn't forget about you
April 15, 2024
You were apart of my happiest moments
Some of my happiest because I forgot
They said ignorance is bliss
So I was able to happily forget about those times.
They were probably happy.
No matter how much I forget, you remain there.
Your silhouette follows me, chasing me down like an unwanted photographer
No matter how much I shield my eyes, one flash and I'm brought back to the memories of you.
I didn't mean to intentionally erase you from my mind,
It just happened to be that way.
You can't hold a grudge for something I don't control.
I'm glad I forgot about you. You probably didn't bring anything to my life.
I'm sorry. You did.
You bring back my memories, memories I can look at like the pictures you take.
No matter how many times I try to forget, you come back to me. You come and remind me of who I used to be. Maybe that's why I didn't stick around. You were too painful for me to remember.
That's not your fault. But it's better this way.
I'll carry the scar you left on me, stuck to me like a needle in skin.
Some of my happiest because I forgot
They said ignorance is bliss
So I was able to happily forget about those times.
They were probably happy.
No matter how much I forget, you remain there.
Your silhouette follows me, chasing me down like an unwanted photographer
No matter how much I shield my eyes, one flash and I'm brought back to the memories of you.
I didn't mean to intentionally erase you from my mind,
It just happened to be that way.
You can't hold a grudge for something I don't control.
I'm glad I forgot about you. You probably didn't bring anything to my life.
I'm sorry. You did.
You bring back my memories, memories I can look at like the pictures you take.
No matter how many times I try to forget, you come back to me. You come and remind me of who I used to be. Maybe that's why I didn't stick around. You were too painful for me to remember.
That's not your fault. But it's better this way.
I'll carry the scar you left on me, stuck to me like a needle in skin.
This was another mini challenge I placed upon myself. Could I make such a deep writing piece about a fictional character? This one didn’t hit this much with me, but that’s how I feel. This time I wrote about Frank West, a character I left in my childhood. Again, another piece of wanting my childhood back, mixed with other conflicting pieces.
I had this article idea in the back of my mind for a while. Originally, I was going to end it off as “Wow, I saw all my writings and realized I am a writer.” I don’t feel any of that, and I’m not going to lie about it to create a happy narrative. What I learned in Posse is that not everything is wrapped in a nice little bow. So I still have to carry this internal struggle of:
“Am I actually a writer?”
I don’t know if I am. One thing I do know is that I will be able to discover more about this passion and my identity as I go through life and college. Maybe I’ll pick up writing again, or leave it entirely. I’m not sure; the thought of the future scares me. But I have to keep going, to answer these questions I have about myself. It will be exciting to discover new pieces of me though, whether it be through writing or not.