I feel like I’m suffocating in my own stillness—there’s this aching, desperate need to create, like a pressure building behind my ribs that won’t let me rest. It’s not about making something perfect or even good—it’s about release, about giving shape to the chaos inside me before it turns to stone. Every day without creating feels like losing a part of myself, like watching something vital slip through my fingers. I need to make, to express, to bring something into the world that didn’t exist before—not for validation, but because if I don’t, I fear I’ll go numb. Creativity isn’t optional anymore—it’s survival.

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