In an effort to be myself I enjoy writing. There is something hopeful about spilling your brain in hopes someone might listen. The idea of being cared and seen, what we all seek. What is it about me I simply only write for myself? My own way of navigating thought and putting words to the feelings I am often so overwhelmed with. I've admired those with diction, who can immediately and eloquently say so gracefully their thoughts. I find myself frozen or mind racing with too many options when it is of importance to me, a fault I hate entirely. Communication is vulnerability. Practicing vulnerability with myself, my heart, my brain. Reflection guides me to understand, change, or continue habits I often want to physically remove from myself. At 26 I have accomplished so much, and feel so empty. Freedom in the summers surround me, and a moment of free time indulges me in the escapades of my brain I would like to stay forever. Putting them to paper or type makes sense. I find it difficult when I think broadly at life. Its purposes, its flows, its constant passing of time- haunting even. Yet the only moments I can feel content are small details where in those blissful moments of sunshine, or a romanticized night drive, or the familiar tune of a comfort tv show, or even witnessing the familiar routine of a loved one feels correct. I am a cliché for myself. and my brain is my favorite place to be.