“I Write… Just for Myself”

It’s 2 AM. Everyone else is asleep. The only light in the room is a dim desk lamp, and the only sound is the soft rustling of my pen on paper. The world outside is silent, but inside me, a storm of thoughts is raging. This is the time when I talk to myself — on paper.

I write — and when I do, it’s not for praise, not for likes, not for applause. There’s no audience here. Just me… and my heart. I write down the things I couldn’t say out loud during the day.

Sometimes dreams, sometimes fears. Sometimes, things are so heavy they can’t be spoken, but somehow, the paper listens without judgment.

This is my little secret to joy. When I write, I feel like I’m holding myself together — like each word comforts me. I meet my past, understand my present, and build hope for my future.

A cup of tea, a blank page, and one honest sentence from the heart — that’s all I need to feel okay.

Writing is therapy for me. It’s the one act where, by losing myself, I truly find myself.