Sitting by the window right now, just staring out at the night, and I can’t stop thinking about life. Like, what’s the point, you know? It’s so beautiful and messy and fleeting. One second, we’re here, and the next… we’re just gone. And what do we leave behind? A few stories? Some words? Does any of it even stick?
I keep coming back to this idea of writing and language. Like, we spend so much time trying to make sense of everything. Writing stuff down, telling stories, putting words to it all. I guess it’s our way of trying to make it make sense. But honestly? Do words even work? Can they really capture everything? The love, the fear, the joy, the chaos? Sometimes it feels like I’m trying to hold water in my hands—it just slips through no matter what I do.
When I was younger, I thought writing would be this big, meaningful thing. Like, if I wrote enough, or wrote something ‘important’, it would last forever. That my words would be my way of leaving a mark. But now? I don’t know. Words aren’t forever, and they’re definitely not monuments. They’re more like little whispers—here for a second and then gone. And honestly, I think I’m okay with that now. These days, I write more to just remember things—faces, moments, even ideas I’m afraid of losing as time goes on.
I’ve spent so many hours just sitting and writing, trying to figure life out. Like, why are we here? What does it all mean? I’ve written about love and heartbreak, big hopes and even bigger disappointments. And sometimes, when I go back and read it, it feels… small. Like the words never really capture what I wanted them to. But maybe that’s just how it is. Maybe words can’t hold everything. Maybe they’re just the best shot we’ve got, even if they’re not perfect.
And honestly? What else can we even do but try? There’s something kind of amazing about creating something, even if it feels pointless sometimes. Finding the right word, putting together a sentence—it’s like my way of saying, “Hey, I’m here. I see this. I feel this.” Even if no one else gets it, I think I write for me. Just to figure things out, to make things make sense in my own head.
And then I think about how small we all are. Like, the stars outside? They’ve been shining for millions of years, watching people like us come and go. And the wildest part? Every single atom in me came from a star. Like, how crazy is that? When I’m gone, those same atoms will go back into the earth, back into the cycle, and become part of something else. It’s kind of comforting, in a way. Like, even after I’m gone, I’ll still be part of something bigger.
So maybe that’s the point? Not to make something that lasts forever, but just to do it*. To write, to create, to try. Not to beat death or anything dramatic like that, but just to sit with it and say, “Hey, I lived. I gave it a shot. I told my story.” And maybe that’s enough.
Anyway, I’m just sitting here with my drink, staring at the night, and I don’t think I’m looking for answers anymore. I’m just trying to figure out where I fit in all of this. And if writing helps me do that, then yeah, I’m gonna keep writing. Even if it’s small, even if it’s just for me. Because maybe that’s what it’s all about.
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