I am writing. I am trying to write, rather. Because despite the number of books I carry on my back every day, I seem to feel the heaviness of the world more vividly, all the layers of sadness, all the in-betweens. I write because pain continues to follow the trail I try so hard to erase. My grief will never be enough to be noticed and there is no consolation after this. I try to write because there is no other way. I try to write because at the end of each day defeat seems to welcome me home and sleep has become an escape instead of a place to rest and waking up feels like an obligation rather than a gift. I am writing not because I am ungrateful but because no one listens except for the pulse I put in my pen. I try to write because I can never say it out loud. I don't know what this is but it has rendered me silent.

I write because emptiness shouldn't weigh this heavy.