A Place to Breathe

I hate how I feel so much, how every heartbeat echoes louder than it should. It’s like I’m carrying the whole world inside my chest, every joy, every ache, all at once. People call it a gift — to care deeply, to love hard, to notice beauty others miss. But sometimes it feels like a burden, like my heart forgot where the off switch is. When I try to form words to others, it’s like I forget how to speak. But when I write, I find the words again that my mouth couldn’t say. I come here urgently, to write, just to feel and understand, when before, I only slept to escape. So I write it here, so I don’t have to speak it out loud, so the page can hold what I can’t hand to someone else. In ink, my chaos looks like order. On paper, my feelings find shape when I feel like nothing at all. Writing gives me a place to exist when I’m not sure where I belong. It feels like purpose, a reason to stay, a way to breathe.