My favorite black ink pen sprinted across the spiral notebook page, frantically attempting to keep up with the flood of thoughts seeping through my inspired mind. A meek smile nudged my cheeks as I worked through the page without hesitance, the outer surface of my cupped writing hand bloodied with the thick black ink it danced with. This is how intimate writing and I used to be.

Once, a piece of paper, a pen, and a thought-saturated mind were all I needed to connect with a blank page. One word grew to a thousand effortlessly as I revealed my greatest ambitions, my underlying emotions, and my fictional twisted tales to my writing. Presently however, my relationship with writing has become immensely materialistic. A successful reunion with my writing now requires a thesaurus, plenty of erasers if pencil is in use (extra white-out if using pen), and piles of notebook paper to adhere to my crumple-and-toss mistakes; all in hopes that I can conjure a good conversation, paired with the appropriate words to describe my thoughts.
Needless to say, our relationship has become awkward. I find myself halting at every half-sentence due to a shortage of words to depict my ideas. The days of my pen dancing cheerfully along-side my paper have become few and far between. I’m having what some relationship therapists may refer to as a “falling out” with writing. We encounter each other when necessary, like walking past an old friend you’ve grown apart from in the school hallways. This “falling out” with writing has been the greatest academic and personal obstacle I’ve reached thus far. I carry a hope that someday we will be able to regain the friendship we once had.