I’m asking for silence. My mind has been filled with such a fury of piecemeal half-thoughts that sometimes it feels as though my brain is static. Void of coherence, because the constant flow of voices that surrounds me has made it impossible to hear the more subtle and unfinished sound of my own thoughts. I need time to myself, time where my light isn’t off and my computer isn’t on, time to write. The pages used to take the space where the noise now exists, filling up the emptiness and offering a sweet and comforting refuge. A place where I could scream about my feelings of disgust, where I could tear my veil of complacency to shreds, without causing a disruption. Now all I want is to disrupt, hack apart all the things in this world that don’t make sense, that cause harm, that perpetuate oppression. But first I must seek the advice of an old friend, find courage in the pages and a witness for my words. The pages were slowly replaced by people, but these individuals didn’t simply assume the role of the canvas and subsume all my stories, musings and confessions. Instead, those thoughts became unfinished and transitory, constantly interrupted by class, work, an assignment, or another’s stories. I had forgotten how therapeutic it is to engulf a page in my deepest thoughts without heed for the consequences, how reassuring it is to know that what I’m thinking has been validated by the ink and that at least I am hearing my own voice, amplified through its reverberation against the paper. I used to know my story, because I had told it through a page so many times before, but what I realized this past summer, was that I didn’t know how to tell my story. I didn’t know who I was because I had spent the past two years listening to and finding out who the people around me were. I need a place where I can write for the sake of storytelling, sharing, and indulging my curiosity rather than stringing together sentences to justify a point and validate my intelligence. A place where I can expose my cheap thoughts, the one’s that come to me in the shower or walking down the street, the one’s that may or may not make sense to anyone other than myself, the one’s that aren’t properly interrupted with punctuation, the one’s that academia tells me are worthless. I think that this is the place to start.