Voices in my head

 

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 don’t like leaving readers in the dark. Or maybe it’s because, even when I write about pain or doubt, I need to believe there’s a way forward. Some call it optimism; some call it cliché. I just call it survival.

There’s always this tension between writing for myself and writing for others. When I write for myself, it’s raw, unfiltered, like scribbling in the margins of a diary. When I write for others, I think about tone, clarity, rhythm, whether it makes sense to someone who isn’t me. A blog, in many ways, is a balancing act: a personal story dressed in universal language, or a universal truth disguised as a personal memory.

And yet, I keep writing. Not because I have answers, not because I want to prove a point, but because it feels like a conversation, I have with myself, with strangers, with anyone willing to read. Blogs don’t always solve anything. But they hold space for feelings, ideas, and half-formed thoughts that might otherwise disappear.

So, when someone asks me, “Are you going to make this a blog?” maybe the real answer is: I don’t decide that, the words do. Some moments demand to be written down. Some stories insist on finding an audience. And if those stories happen to sound like my life, maybe that’s because writing, at least for me is the fine thread between living and making sense of living.