By Alexa Gay Enumerables | February 23, 2024
When I am journaling, I write words for no one, and such complex thoughts and feelings remain in the abyss of my conscience.
I spiral into an outburst of mysteries and keep my walls up. I prefer having them figure me out than laying all of me for the world to pick apart. I think about how writing has never been my forté; I had no purpose to write and articulate words until just recently.
As a young girl, my mother encouraged me to write. Somehow, it was her way of asking me how my day was—plus her correcting my spelling and grammar. I would sit at the dining table, thinking of all the material I could write about. Oftentimes, I would ask my mother what I should write about. She would reply: “Anything and everything.” Since then, it became a habit of mine to drone on and on about my day on a piece of paper.
Despite this, I am not a good writer. I stand by basic sentences, ordinary vocabulary, and shallow thoughts. When I enrolled in my program, I was immediately hit with uncertainty. People around me were experienced, while I merely had nothing to offer. I doubted the choice I made when I enrolled, for I was heavily disconnected from the passion everyone else had.
Undoubtedly, articulating words on paper is intimidating for it requires substance and structure. All I knew of was writing my dreams, an intense thought dump, and reflecting on the plot twists of a book.
A year has passed by; I am now in my second year. I realized that it was all a learning experience. There is no need for me to rush and feel futile for not being the best of the best.
Now that I take classes with lots of writing activities, my professors never fail to remind us that writing is powerful. Ultimately, after submitting my first news article for an assignment, I have now found the purpose of my writing.
I now realize these words that were once for no one can now be for someone.
