I am temedaio.

Writing about this year was always going to be through retrospect, it’s fake to say that it’s challenging haven to experience the realities of last year and be expected to write it in real time, when emotions, thoughts and logic weren’t fully explored - too much of life was happening for any space of it to be written about.

For a while now, I’ve been having trouble writing stories. It seems like the only thing I can formulate together are my thoughts, but they’re not translating into stories, scenes or characters, it’s just all me. These words bouncing around in the emptiness of my brain, while the insecurities of not ‘making use of the time’ ricochets back and forth with it, are all roaming free and unhinged - I don’t know what I am doing, but it feels like I’m meant to be doing something.

I’ve spent a good majority of my life using writing as a tool to release what I’ve been holding in. My words have had to go somewhere, whether it was on the side of bookshelves, bathroom walls, stollen notepads from the school stationary cupboards or in my diary - it was all a way to release, be free and be present.