Why I write

I was never the type who loved writing in school.
Essays felt stiff. Book reports were a chore.
But even back then, I was writing—just not the kind they asked for.

I wrote lyrics.

Rhymes scribbled in spiral notebooks, verses built in my head
while walking alone, staring at ceilings, or laying in the dark.
It wasn’t for grades. It wasn’t for praise.
It was how I processed the chaos.
How I fought the silence.

Most people who know me know I wanted to rap for real.
That dream stayed with me—through moves, through setbacks,
through war zones and waiting rooms.
It was never just about music. It was about having a voice.
Finding clarity when the world felt off-key.

These days, I write differently—but the reason hasn’t changed.

Now it’s less about rhythm, more about reflection.
Less punchline, more purpose.
I write to slow things down, to capture meaning before it slips away.
Not just from the world—but from myself.

I listen more now.
To people. To history. To patterns that repeat when we stop paying attention.
Writing helps me connect the dots—between what I’ve lived,
what I’ve learned,
and what I’m still trying to understand.

When I’m not writing, I feel it.
Not like guilt—more like a pressure behind the eyes.
Like a door cracked open, waiting for me to step through.

So I write.

To stay connected.
To stay honest.
To stay human.

That’s why I’m here again.
Not chasing applause—just staying in motion.
The words help me do that.
They always have.