Not a Hobby

An ex once said he wished I didn’t need to write so much, like it was something I’d outgrow. But you don’t outgrow breathing. You don’t outgrow eating. Writing is like rinsing rice, washing away the extra starch until the water runs clear. It’s necessary. Without it, my brain is a bed full of crumbs—sharp, relentless.

I’ve learned to navigate conversations, wear the mask, play the part, but my real thoughts—the messy, feral ones—only come out on paper. That’s where I really live. I’ve seen people flinch from themselves, avoid looking too close, terrified they’ll find something broken that can’t be fixed. Not me. I want to know. I need to know.

For so long, I didn’t even know what I wanted. I was sleepwalking through life, like a marionette, nodding and smiling, doing what I thought was expected. But writing drags me back into my body.

Last night, I dreamt of this girl from high school. I used to hate her. Now, I’m in a café buying gifts for her kid. My boyfriend’s there, like some spiritual sherpa, leading me to a peace I never signed up for. This morning, I sat with it, scribbled it out. No divine message here, just the weird emotional debris of a brain trying to make sense of itself.

As a kid, I’d write down nightmares, hoping to exorcise them, not dump them on my mom. Still doing that. Still sifting through the mess, finding the signal in the static, reminding myself what’s real. The words are there, always, like a net under a tightrope. They catch me. They are me.