I’ve been writing vicariously these days, slipping away for hours when I should be sleeping late at night. When it’s quiet and I’m alone and the house is dark except for a cluster of candles and the glow of my laptop, curled up on the couch or with Biba sleeping on me while I’m stretched out on the floor. Expressing myself feels quite effortless this month and it’s both a relief and a joy to find that freedom. At the beginning of this year, I resolved to start a journal – spilling out a paragraph here and there whenever I can. It has been such a solace and an outlet, typically the content I produce is for the eyes of others but this journal I’ve been keeping is my favourite thing I’ve ever written. It’s quiet and private, candid and crammed with uncomfortable truths and confusing emotions. It’s so messily human, so disastrously me, and looking back at entries from 3 weeks ago or the beginning of the year is humbling and enlightening because here are these words speaking my life, threading together all the things that have happened to me in 2016. Like falling in love or losing weight or the anxiety floods or a girl I met that I wish I could be friends with. For my generation and in the industry I work in, the majority of our creativity is fueled by the desire to share and showcase. I will always congratulate the internet for the canvas it created for creatives like me and millions others. But sometimes consider other’s opinions taints creativity, we might twist or flex our creations to make them more appealing and more widely accepted. I myself do this all the time, hitting the delete key on entire paragraphs in fear I’ll be called out or won’t live up to the inspirational role we as bloggers so often feel pressured to fill. Now, I know most of you would love and embrace even my ugliest and most awkward truths because since I assertively made the decision to tell a story, you’ve listened, interacted and shared chapters in your own story similar to mine. But the fear is always there and it keeps me quiet so often. Hence why I start this deliciously private journal, it’s for no one’s eyes but mine. When I go to write there, I don’t worry about how my words might look; it’s a writing process completely devoid of self consciousness, self image and so on. I’ve learnt that this is how I feel most inspired, most creative and most confident in my talents as a writer. Simply spelling out my uncomfortable truths renders them more comfortable. It’s cathartic and truthfully creative and beautiful in a way I never thought it would be. And to think, this ongoing word document, in reality is just a file on a hardrive but at the same time, it’s all me, it holds everything of note so far, it holds my 2016 life. But you see, a problem has since arisen, I love the way I write there, they are my best words which encourages me to share. But surely sharing would bring me back to my self-consciousness? How do I explore and document my truths to the world without tainting them in the process? I want to write words for the world to read so why are my most cherished pieces written just for me?