Every day, every night, I would say I tend to write. The scribbles of my thoughts continue to grow each time my pen sprouts the new ideas being whispered in my soul. 

Each time I grasp my pencil, I find my hand start to move without reassurance. Sometimes, it’s hard to think of the positives because most of the time it’s easy to find the negatives; so here in my room, almost every night, I try to hold on to the habit of sharing what I hold dearest 99% of the time—writing. 

Flipping page after page, like a never-ending loop of lines, my positive words fly from one to another. Each notion so carefully pieced together, not a single phrase is broken up by my negative wonders. All that is written are my positive thoughts, the ones so deep and full of perceptions—the ones that nobody will hear me speak because they are a part of who I am as a person. 

The sacred words that can’t just bounce off my tongue—the six words that are locked inside—are mine to carry around. No matter who pries for my ideas to jump out, if I lost sight of what makes me who I am, writing would never be near me ever again. 

When the time is right, maybe I’ll find the light, the perfect sentence that says who I am inside. 

No more hiding my colors from everyone else; my guard can eventually start to fall down. Little by little, my words fly out, but soon enough they will hit the ground. For the time being, this is who I am, a conception of words that tie me down again and again. It’s not a struggle or fight to say what’s on my mind, but the way I have to write this down—exactly how I’m feeling—makes me believe my words can have control over me. 

While these scribbles of thoughts continue to grow, my layer of protection—my hard-covered book—becomes sturdier and stronger each time I re-read what I’ve written down. 

No time to think or act upon what flows from my mind to the wooden paper. No time to say I’ll write what went wrong versus what went well about my day. When I touch my pen filled with colorful feelings, I release the world away from me—I relax and seep back into my own world. Nobody told me I’d have such negative feelings, but there are always ways to find the positives. 

No need for therapy, at least not for me—my constant support comes from piles of journals that sit next to me. So swiftly and freely, my words make up who I am. 

Every evening, I remind myself of what I could be, a version of myself on paper, the true personality of a songwriter collecting pieces of what she could be. How the poetry and rhyme scheme and different song formats carry in my style of handwriting—how my words fly softly in all my daily writing. This piece is not just an example of that, but it carries the message I’m still trying to discover. 

As I sit in bed each night, thinking about the variety of ways I could write, I never think twice about what makes my writing unique. I feel as if, most of the time, I’m repeating myself, but that’s the way my brain works, and this piece that seems quite confusing doesn’t need to be, as long as it makes sense to me. 

Although I don’t have time to carry around my three notebooks and write letters to who I could be, or who I want to meet, I can carry around those six words that have meaning to me. Someday I’ll let those words fly swiftly—let them rhyme and repeat. As you’ve come to read, this whole piece is written with sentences and phrases that flow to a beat—the one that lies within my heart, for only me.