The first puff

I can get as dark as I can. I thought as I stared at the black sky with twinkling stars above me.

It took me a long time to push myself back into writing. Honestly, I was just scared to let myself be vulnerable again and open up the cracks in my heart. Because I know once I peek into them, there’s no going back. As the first puff of smoke appeared, a wave of nostalgia hit me—or maybe it was just the breeze of air combing through me as I stared into oblivion, into the darkness of the sky, letting myself feel what needed to be felt. I’ve lost track of who I am for months now—not just because I haven’t processed how sick my mom was, but also because deep down, I know I needed to do some healing on my own too.

My dream of becoming a writer came rushing back when I started reading again. It reminded me how much I’ve always wanted to pour my heart and soul into words, but I’ve been afraid—afraid of opening doors I can’t close on my own. I’ve wrapped myself in a kind of bravery, tricking myself into thinking I’m strong, while unknowingly accepting that I am not. So many things have weighed on my mind and heart over the past few months, things I still can’t fully comprehend. I believe it’s still apparent to anyone who looks at me closely.

As I was writing this, I didn’t know what I wanted to share. But I’m proud of myself for trying—trying again to write, to feel, and to embrace life’s wonders, even if I can’t grasp every detail it wants me to uncover. I've had enough worrying of about how people would perceive my level of sensitivity and how deep my mind could go. This is my way of coping and processing things. So just let me have this, and leave you with the cloudiness of it all.