January was only a pause, a pulse, a breath— but March was a river, awashing me with all that was held.

I questioned myself. I doubted my pen. I asked whether I should even post at all.

"Why share if no one benefits? If it's personal, keep it to yourself." I remembered someone once saying, "I'd rather not post anything than waste someone's time." The words stayed, creeping in like a thief— stealing my confidence, slipping away just as quietly.

But today, I've had enough. I want to face it. So here I am, writing again.

I wondered if my words were worth it. If I was only seeking attention. Who would want to read a girl's rant anyway? My mind whispered, "If your work had structure, if only it were half as good, I wouldn't be so critical." And so I asked myself: Why do I even write?

If it's only introspection, why invite the world to peek? Why let them judge the most fragile corners of me?

I wondered and wondered. And maybe I still don't have the answer. But here's what I found: I want to hear others' thoughts. I want to know I'm not alone. I want to see that someone else feels the same, thinks the same, doesn't just misunderstand or point fingers as if blame were their bread.

Contradiction, I suppose, can be a gift— even when it wears the mask of hurt. If it doesn't show you what to avoid, it will at least force you to question your motives, to sharpen your resolve.

Projection, assumption— meanings stitched by others onto my skin and action. But even when words are spoken plainly, I don't have to carry the burden of living under your worst beliefs.

To the naysayers: your thoughts are your own. If I find them poisoning my heart, I will discard them— gladly, without regret.

And yes, my words may not be exceptional. Others have thought these thoughts, named them better, researched them deeper. Maybe they laugh at my expressions. But how would I know if my words could touch hearts if they expire in my journals?

Years ago, I wished: "Someday, long after I'm gone, may someone find these pages and say, I'd have loved her." But if I never share, my words end with me. Versions of myself— the ones I meet in writing— will vanish as the pages fill.

Just like my side notes, I'll lose them. And I won't even remember what I lost along the way. Forget someone finding me after death— even I won't remember me while I'm still breathing.

Maybe I don't want my words to be remembered only by the diaries and the ink. Maybe I want others to know them— the people I've loved and lost, the versions of me no one else ever saw. Maybe I want to introduce them too to the world.

And if that's selfish, then so be it. It's no more selfish than wanting to stay alive. No more selfish than believing you're worth something even if you're not useful to others. No more selfish than the human need for love. No more selfish than wanting to be seen, even knowing you'll never be seen exactly as you are.

I am selfish. But I am selfish as you are— as human, as desperate, just as alive.

And maybe that's— where art starts.