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“Scooby’s brown, smelling the ground…
golden light on the Altima…
the sky is dark bluish…”
I was walking Scooby — my sister’s one-and-a-half-year-old pit bull.
To decompress, yes…
but more importantly, because I’ve been thinking about why writing feels like an experience now.
Why it feels necessary.
I never learned how to rest my mind.
Maybe the reason was simple:
I needed to be heard.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But when I look back, I remember something:
As a kid, that was me —
talking endlessly to anyone near me.
I didn’t know it then.
I didn’t know my mind was trying to make space.
Trying to be seen.
Trying to breathe.
As an adult, I still had that same mind —
full of ideas, full of sparks —
and people would tell me,
“shhhh.”
So writing became the place where no one says “shhh.”
Where I don’t have to shrink.
Where I don’t have to edit my existence.
Writing became a place to rest.
Rest.
And now it’s becoming something deeper —
a place where my subconscious and conscious
finally sit together
and understand each other.
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