I wish that I wrote more.

Unlike many, I don’t have this writer’s guilt. Although not as ritualized as it used to be, I attempt to write once a day in this blog. Recently, a friend asked, “It’s still going?”

But I can’t help but write. Every single memory, I worry, will slip away if it’s not captured in words, sentences, pages. Weeks, months, years later, I look back and appreciate those moments. Because if it was not for the writing, I would be deep in the mud, stuck calling for help.

It is stress-relieving.

But my guilt right now is that I find it impossible to write about what I had planned to write. I keep coming back here. In my personal essay class, my instructor told the class to choose the subject that shone the most. Like walking into a Tiffanys and getting to drawn to that single sparkly diamond ring. Sadly, it isn’t the project that I set to do. I want to write out the emotions, the feelings, the motivations for my own tears here. I want to write about the laundry that binds us, the people I have discarded and accepted, and the successes that I swallowed only to forget one day later.

This is my own struggle of being a writer. I am driven by feelings and so my blog has always been my best friend like that. It has allowed me to write anything. Even though I have no profit, no true audience (well…hello out there!)…because that’s fine to me.

Because at the core, I am writing.