I write when I have no one to talk to. When it’s late at night, and the wheeze of my own bones is keeping me awake. When there seems to be a lot at stake, but it’s really just my own insecurity tearing me down, crumbling my aspirations, mud-sliding my countryside into the wide plains of non-existence. There was never a fence around our circumstances. There was always that crushing weight of the lightness of being. There was always a fault in our stars, and while you’re in the bars and I am at home, I am lost in a book. Or at least, in a story. My grandma would say “only boring people are bored" and I pride myself on proving her right - but sometimes forget which one I am. I write at night. And whether its the soft shush of pages or just dribbling ink, I write when I need to think outloud to myself, because I am probably the only one who’ll get all the inside jokes, all the repeating thesis statements of my own emergency - you know, the urgency in my own voice still surprises me sometimes. It is the clanging bell of evacuation, breaking the vow of silence I make every time I cross my heart - hope to die - just not tonight, dear - just not tonight.