౨ৎ jo

i don't think i'll have much to say here, since I'm sure my account will say a lot for me. but for context,

i'm an afro latina born in the south, but living up north.

hobbies: writing, reading romance novels and mangas; listening to music; i basically only watch cartoons, and i journal.

I will always put pieces of myself into writing, but never the whole story. For myself, I found this to be a method of decentering the author. Allowing for there to be intention in the writing, but gifting it to the readers to add their own.

However, I now recognize that this habit is anything but selfless. It's an act of self-preservation--which doubles as a form of silencing. I am not preserving my feelings; I am bottling them in a place that not even art can touch.

I've never felt more alive than I do in this given moment.

I finished writing the first chapter of my novel. Now, I know to most writers, this is but a statement to snicker at. Wait until you reach the middle section, or that joy will leave you once you start your first concrete draft.

However, I don't wish to spend time dreading the thing that puts breath in my lungs.

I don't think others truly understand. writing in a lifeline. Without it, I would have felt like a shell of who I was. reclused into the dark corners of my mind. turning over one word after another until they turn on me. It's that of a mental break, one you'd hear in a deceased writer's diary who only ever published 2 books. If you count the low distribution rate that it started with.

The plague of artistry entered my veins and hasn't left since I put that pen down. The day I stopped writing was the day I started a eulogy.

not in a metaphoric way either. I had begun to write goodbyes to sectors of myself that came together to form me.

But with just a chapter. I am alive.

it’s so interesting to have a life but feel as though you can’t ever talk. you can’t ever raise your voice too loud or others will hear. and we wouldn’t want that. no, we wouldn’t want them to hear. just project. 

it’s easier if they project their beliefs and conceptualized identification onto you. as if you are an extension of themselves. 

silence it’s an act of selflessness from you but selfishness for them. 

simply nod and bow. keep your grace, and notice how their preconceived notion—if never shattered—propels you. 

yet, this is self harm. to be removed from your physical is a death of self. you are giving up the rebirth in which you were granted for this lifetime. 

do you get it now? 

so yes, i could talk. i could say what comes to mind as the pathways form, but that isn’t me. just as you aren’t me. so instead, i will talk—as i please. when i please. 

don’t talk my silence as compliancy, and don’t take my voice as defiance. 

and while great for self-exploration