I’m not fixing this.
Not the tone.
Not the shape.
Not the fact that it comes out blunt and uneven and doesn’t try to guide you anywhere.
I’m done mistaking restraint for maturity.
Some of what I think is unfinished. Some of it is ugly. Some of it contradicts what I wrote last week.
I’m not smoothing that out anymore.
I don’t need my inner life to be coherent to strangers.
If this were about failure, I’d be embarrassed.
I’m not.
I’m relieved. Relieved to stop negotiating with an imaginary audience. Relieved to stop wondering how this reads instead of noticing how it feels to write it. Relieved to leave the mess where it actually happens, instead of cleaning it up for public consumption.
I don’t need to be understood to be honest. I don’t need to be liked to be intact.
This space isn’t for improvement. It’s for exposure — the kind that doesn’t ask for applause. The kind that burns a little and then goes quiet.
Some things will land. Some won’t.
That’s not a problem to solve.
I’m not losing anything by writing like this.
I’m getting myself back.