Ink Forged Tales

Writing's like digging in your own backyard, hoping to unearth something shiny amid the dirt. Some half-forgotten dreams or that weird pang when you realize you're more alone in a crowd than you'd admit. It's all about those raw bits: a crush that fizzles, a grudge that lingers, the quiet fight to keep going.

My apporch is total chaos. But I try to make it stick. It usually kicks off with a glitch in my head—a stray image, like rain on a window blurring the world outside, or a question that won't quit, like:
What if I had kissed her that night? Fuck!
But yeah, from there, I let it rip.

They're the persistent ghosts that follow me:
who the hell am I when no one's watching? (But that's never really the case though, is it?)
The yearning to be empty when being full. The sharp sting of half-remembered regrets. Light and dark tangled like veins under skin.