I don’t really know where to start.

But let’s begin with this: I am.

I am not very good at writing. Which, put another way, really means I don’t know how to write at all. And it’s such a silly thing to say because that’s what I’m doing. Right now, I am writing. In fact, I’ve been writing my whole life. It’s one of those things that we are trained to do. Writing pairs with reading pairs with learning pairs with listening pairs with observing pairs with experiencing pairs with living – living.

There are people that write well. Yet, there are also people that write, for lack of a better word, extraordinarily. It is the latter I am envious of – it is the latter that I aspire to be.

But I am struggling. I think I’ve written and re-written this post at least ten times. And in my head, a thousand times over. It has actually been a struggle to bring myself to write this post. More so, a struggle to build this blog. I mean, if you want to make a blog, you do just that. You make a blog. You write. You photograph. You capture. You create. But to be frank, it’s not that easy.

I had a blog once. Maybe even a couple. And somehow, each of these blogs have gotten me into trouble. Some times with others, a lot of the time, with myself.

Writing is meant to be expressive. Writing is meant to be liberating. If anything, it is through writing that we are able to wholly embrace vulnerability. But I struggled with that. And feared it. And that is where I fell short. Over the weeks that turned into months and years, writing – like most things I became passionate about – became foreign. Society became my haven. I captured and I created an image, a life, a person. I captured and I created an essence. But not my essence.

A mold is more or less a hollow container that gives form to a substance. We are constantly being molded not just by ourselves, but by others. We are creatures easily and constantly influenced by everything surrounding us – what we read, listen and see; who we read, listen and see; and how we read, listen and see. And it comes to the point that we become less of who we are. We become hollow.

I was hollow, my words were empty, and I was not a writer.

But today is the first day I have successfully brought myself to write this. It isn’t exactly the way I wrote it out in my head. But it is. I cannot be sure about this blog, what it is and where it will lead to. And of all the things Lovehead has taught me, it is to just be that resonates with this the most. It will be sad, and happy. It will be about adventures, and experiences. It will be about downfalls, and glories. It will be about growing up and growing together. It will be everything it can be. I am writing because I am a writer.

I am learning.

I am living.

I am everything I can be.

I am.