in

i

n

k’

my heart s

shines

brightest

s

h

a

d

. e

you are the reason

i do what i do

live like im on the run

constantly ready to argue

scared to share

what i feel inside

and maybe that’s not fair

but i guess it’s because im tired

constantly trying to show

im better, worth more

than you know.

That’s what I write for

to show you

i could be so much more

to show you

how much I try

that’s the reason why

Words that can’t accomplish the journey off the tip of your tongue, come to life at the tip of your fingers. Bottled up expressions burst into a million vibrant colors. All it takes is the stroke of a pencil to turn paper into a masterpiece. In the world of writing there are no rules, no restrictions. It is your chance to exhale every feeling of doubt, love, happiness, fear, or guilt. One word can spark a thousand memories. Writing isn't just an ultimate escape of harsh reality. It's a chance of self-discovery.

I heard recently that it takes "creative-types" around 22 minutes to get into their state of creative "flow".

That proves true for me, in general, with an exception for the past decade or so that I've been avoiding my creative "flow" obstinately. I think we can call that at outlier, though. I'm comfortable with that.

In more recent days, I sit down every morning at my desk with my computer or notepad placed purposefully in front of me with absolutely no idea what I'm doing. These muscles haven't been utilized in so damn long. The "flow" of this creative, metaphorical river feels more like what my grandpa would dialectically call the trickling of a struggling "crick". I find myself asking the same question that this challenge poses. It would be so much easier just to get back in bed and browse Instagram.

Regardless, as obstinately as I've been avoiding voluntary creativity for the majority of my adult life, I start to write. Even before that 22-minute sweet spot, I start to remember why this was a thing I pushed myself to do, once upon a time.

It's becuase I can do whatever I want.

In my journal, on a post-it note, in this challenge, I can do whatever I goddamn please. I could use as many adjectives as I could think of to describe the look of the mountain outside my window, or just the pencil that is currently to the left of my left-hand pinky finger. I could spend three pages ruminating on the taste of one brand of coffee in contrast to another. If I felt so inclined, I could write a story about a cow who becomes the next President of the United States. It wouldn't be good, and I think the audience looking for that would be a fascinating one, but I could do it.

Let's disregard estimates of 22-minutes or the initiation of any kind of "flow". When I ask myself why I write, I'm not asking why writing is fluid or easy or good. I'm asking why I sit down at my desk with anything in front of me at all.

I write becuase I can do whatever I want. I write because it sets me free.

Why do I write?

So many options.

What am I supposed to say?

I write for so many reasons, that it’s almost impossible to pick apart the separate motivations for my love of word-craft.

But, I suppose, the main reason is because of my emotions.

I write to stave away the demons that creep in when I’m not paying enough attention, when I let my fragile walls that surround my heart down.

Because when I start to get comfortable, something always will happen.

Someone will raise their voice.

Someone will joke about disabilities.

Someone will joke about suicide.

Someone will talk about how my classmates are lying about their depression, just to get attention.

Someone will say that a classmate is lying about their home life, pretending it is bad, just for popularity.

My vision gets blurry.

My head pounds.

My face flushes.

My ears ring.

My hands clench.

The familiar heavy brick settles on my chest.

I can’t breath.

Start to hyperventilate.

Start to shake.

Start to get dizzy.

Can’tbreathcan’tbreathcan’tbreathcan’tbret-

They don’t understand.

I’ve been through shit.

I’ve been to HELL and back.

They don’t know.

Every smile of mine,

Every good deed for someone else,

Every day I go without lunch,

Every day I spend at the counselors office,

Every time my response to “How are you?” is a tired “I’m alive, so that’s something”,

Every time I pretend to not hear people ridiculing others,

Every time I look numb,

Every time I don’t come to school because I can’t bring myself to get out of bed (but they will never know that),

Every time I have not slept for over 24 hours (because I spent the night online talking to my only friends that I will never meet, or writing my thoughts down in my notepad, but they don’t know that),

Every time I come to school, and look at the floor instead of talk (because my mom woke me up with screams, saying I’m not good enough),

Every time I look sad or frightened when asked about my family (that time when my mom slapped me in the face at age nine and locked me in the bathroom for having an anxiety attack, or that time last november when my dad threw me off the sofa, dug his nails into my wrist and screamed the everloving daylights into my face for not getting off the sofa, [still have small scar from that] keep running through my mind)

Every single twitch, smile, shake, laugh, is a call for help.

But no one can hear.

Cause they don’t notice.

I pretend I’m fine.

But I’m not.

I write to feed the demons, at least for a while longer.

To satisfy their need.

And really, it’s my only way of expressing emotion.

Cause, in case you have not guessed, I don’t talk about my problems all that much.

So I write, to let out all my pent up emotions and sadness.

And without my emotions screaming to get out as strongly as they usually are, I strengthen the mask I show the world.

So why do I write?

To strengthen my mask.

To build up my walls.

They can’t hurt you if you don’t let them.

thoughtfully

slowly I grow up

to myself

I distort time

with words

I turn the world

upside down

stopped

in the land of my childhood

How about you?

Why did you organize the competition?

My goal is to write, what about you?

J.O.K.E

I write to reach soemone capable of creating a magical world. To the future generations of engineers, artists, scientists that are surrounded by toxic families unwilling to believe in a better world. To those trapped in the darkness of their own making. I write to heal the hopeless illusion of destruction. For those that have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I am a humble writer, here to present entertainment as a guide to a world that will not be denied. A world waiting within all of us. A world of happiness without fearing failure at each imperfection, but seeking it for the opportunity each failure brings us.