Sometimes I have these conversations in my head. Half-real, half-imagined, but they help. Like explaining it to someone makes it more real—makes me more real. And last night, I said something that stuck with me:
Writing clears my head.
Not in the cliché sense. Not like journaling your feelings until everything’s tidy and color-coded. No—more like this: once I write it down, the story can’t shift anymore.
Because before the words hit the page, it’s chaos. Dozens of versions. Endless possibilities. Sidelines and branches and what-ifs and could-be’s and what-the-fuck-even-is-this. The story isn’t one story—it’s all of them, all at once. And they won’t shut up. They pull at me. Multiply. Warp. Contradict each other. Change shape every time I look away.
But once I choose. Once I pin it down, sentence by sentence, version by version—it stops. The noise stops. That’s the only way the story gets quiet.
It’s not even about truth, not really. It’s about finality. About giving shape to the shapeless. About saying, This is the version I’m giving life to. The rest can die now.
And once it’s written, it’s fixed. That part of my mind doesn’t scream anymore. It doesn’t beg for attention or revision. It just… lets go.
It’s not healing. Not exactly. But it’s survival.
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