Shh! Not A Writer.

  Every time I sit down to write, I wonder what I’m really doing. Am I just recording thoughts? Am I telling stories? Or am I leaving small prints of my life on the internet for others to trace? Most of my blogs come from things I like, experiences I’ve lived through, stories I’ve overheard, or choices I’ve made. But I try to keep them a little impersonal, as if I’m writing about someone else’s life in my words. That’s the funny part, people around me catch it. They’ll say, “Oh, are you going to make this into a blog?” or “This sounds like your life story, doesn’t it?” Sometimes it feels like a compliment, sometimes like gentle teasing, and sometimes I can’t even tell. Are they genuinely appreciating what I write? Are they mocking the fact that I turn everything into words? Or are they simply curious to know how much of me hides behind the paragraphs? I’ve noticed people also pick up on how my blogs usually end with something hopeful, something positive. Maybe it’s because I do...

                           There’s a quiet ache that comes with expecting too much from people. Sometimes it’s friends, family, and sometimes someone you just met who seemed to hold a promise. I find myself creating these quiet blueprints in my head of who they could be; how they’ll act, what they’ll say, and their role in my life. And then reality, in its blunt honesty, shows me otherwise. It does sting at times. Not because they failed me, but because I created a version of them that never existed.                                Then I realized that disappointment isn’t born out of who people are. It’s born out of who I wanted them to be. The frustration isn’t with their actions but the gap between my imagined version of them and the actual human standing before me. That’s a hard pill to swallow, because it mean...