Hi I’m Night, but you can call me Nin.
I usually keep personal thoughts out of my writing blog.
However, writing is something I enjoy even when I feel I’m no good at it.
It’s something I love, it’s something that’s always felt good, and comfortable.
More importantly it felt safe.
Writing always meant I was safe, my voice would be heard, and what I felt, what I thought, what mattered to me also mattered to others.
Growing up I felt I didn’t have a voice; I still feel like that sometimes. I’ve experienced things that left me voiceless, terrified of what would happen if I said something wrong.
I feel dumb writing this, I feel a lot of things, but writing shouldn’t feel wrong. No one gets to take that feeling away from me. It felt like writing was all I had sometimes, not just fun stories, but how I saw something, how I felt about something, and how I could become something.
Maybe that’s why I want to become a journalists, to write things people would read, and write stories for people who mattered.
I fell in love with this idea, the same way I fell in love with the idea of writing.
Writing became all I know, even when my grammar is just too many commas and not enough understanding of semicolons, and dashes.
I was... hurt today. Not bad, not something I haven’t dealt with before, and I’m learning to understand how it affects how I see myself. I’m not surprised by it, but I’m most definitely always thrown into a loop by how many different ways a person can break your heart.
This was the first time I didn’t react how I usually do though, I wasn’t sad, I mean I was, but I was angry. Angry in a way that should have terrified me, but I think it also meant that I still burned. I understand what said to me is wrong and a lie.
You can love a person, and not like them. You can want them to be better, want to love them as much as you want, but never like them. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less, and it doesn’t mean this is the only kind of love that exists out in the world. Because love is so much more, even when it makes you so damn tired all the time.
But what does it tell me when love can be used to hurt people like this? That’s why I got angry I guess. This anger, and this pain, I could always translate it best when I write. Even when I feel self-doubt.
And I think I want to write this here to not forget it, to not move on. Not in a bad way, I’ve noticed how people around me act like yesterday never happened, and I’ve always hated it.
I’ve felt useless, and anxious. I know there’s a lot about me that makes me all hesitant, but I’m not useless either.
I’m not.
So to all of you reading and writing. Keep writing, until your fingers bleed, until you feel it grow and just become something. It doesn’t even have to be masterful, just write, because writing gives you a voice and the world is listening.
