Why I Started Writing

Some memories were too loud to carry. So I started writing them down to survive the echo.

I don’t really like writing.

I’m not sitting here romanticizing the page with a candle lit and some leather-bound notebook. I’m not one of those.
Never really been a reader. Didn’t grow up dog-earing novels or quoting dead poets.
I was outside. Learning the kind of things that don’t come with footnotes.
More street than scholarly.
I watch. I remember. I survive.

But my brain was getting full.

Not with facts or trivia, but with moments.
With that one look someone gave me that ruined a week.
With the sound of her breath when she was trying not to cry.
With all the shit I never said, and the things I wish I didn’t.
I don’t know how to unfeel things.
I just hold them until they ache.

So I had to decide.
Delete some memories.
Delete them all.
Or keep every single one and let them rot me slowly from the inside out.

I didn’t like any of those options.
So I started writing.

And right now I’ve got “N.I.B.” by Black Sabbath playing through a half-broken speaker, and it fits.
That heavy, haunting kind of love that tastes like sin but somehow saves you.
It’s not music. It’s a possession.
Like the song is writing this with me.
Ozzy wailing in the background while I bleed quietly into the keyboard.

This isn’t some writer’s high.
This is triage.
I’m not trying to be eloquent.
I’m trying to breathe.

And I started posting what I wrote not to perform, but to offload.
To stop carrying everything alone.
To see it from the outside and go, “Okay, yeah. That happened. But it’s not all of me.”

This is where I go when I disappear.

When I don’t respond. When I leave you on read. When I vanish mid-conversation or cancel plans without explanation.
It’s not you. It’s me, sinking into the well.
Slipping into that quiet place inside where no one else fits.
I don’t forget about you.
I just need to remember myself.

It happens at least once a week, every month.
Like clockwork. Like gravity.
And writing is the rope I pull myself up with.

So no, I don’t like writing.
But it works.
And it keeps me from exploding.
Or worse. Imploding.

I’m not a writer.
I’m just a man trying to make space inside his own skull.
And some nights, Sabbath in the background, I almost do.

// Scorpio Veil

For the ones who vanish without warning, speak in half-sentences, and remember too much to sleep soundly.

This is for the ones who write not to be read

but to survive the weight of what they never said.

And the ones who go quiet, but never truly leave

If your breath just changed
You’re not alone.
The rest of this? It’s already waiting.