Two AM, and I’m still awake, writing a song
Anna Nalick, Breathe (2 AM)
It’s 2 am and I’m here again, staring at this blog post, a draft I last touched 3 years ago when I was again up late, listening to Anna Nalick, wondering why I felt compelled to blog even when I thought I had nothing to say.
But that’s the thing about writers. We have to write.
It’s an urge, a compulsion. A necessary release, like screaming in the shower or hammering on piano keys. Or sprinting till your legs burn on what was supposed to be your easy run day, (my IT band still hates me).
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to.
Thoughts build up, pressure rising, until the only way to quiet them is to get them out. And for some of us, that means putting them somewhere.
Writers—bloggers, novelists, songwriters, diarists—understand that feeling. The thoughts build up, pressure rising, until the only way to quiet them is to get them out. And for some of us, that means putting them somewhere.
For me, when I was younger, it meant writing letters to God or my dead dog Bugs. It meant scribbling on the back of church pamphlets, scrawling notes in the margins of math homework, writing western fan fiction at night to combat nightmares. My thoughts needed a place to go. Pressing pen to paper, brown knuckles turning white, I poured my heart into scattered entries over the years.
Most of those writings are gone—lost in moves, ruined by water, or burned. But now, I have this: a blog. A digital space where my words don’t have to disappear. Where, instead of gathering dust in a forgotten notebook, they live on in a little corner of the internet.
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd,
‘Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
Blogging still feels weird to me. Even now, I hesitate. Why put words to web when most people’s attention spans barely last a 15-second TikTok? Why expose my thoughts, my half-formed ideas, my late-night ramblings to strangers?
Because, if I’m honest, I want someone to read them.
There’s an undeniable vanity in writing. A secret (or not-so-secret) hope that someone will stumble across our words and connect. That they’ll nod in recognition, laugh at our jokes, or feel something we felt. We write for ourselves—but also, just a little, for the possibility of being heard.
Even when no one reads, we write anyway.
And I know that you’ll use them however you want to
I grew up in a time before social media, when school projects required primary sources and the entire student body shared three bubblegum-colored Apple computers. It means my personal communication skills are sharper than that of Gen Z—but it also means I’m conflicted about sharing anything online.
Yet, here I am. Writing. Because I have to.
And maybe, years from now, I’ll look back at these pages and see how my life—and my writing—have evolved. Maybe this blog will be a time capsule, proof that I was here, thinking and feeling and stringing words together at odd hours of the night.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I haven’t done a very good job of keeping up with the blog, but I’m hoping to change that. This post is just a bit of personal nonsense, trimmed down from the original mess I typed-out. Still, I’ll never force my prattling on you.
You are in control of what you read. Time is precious, so I won’t pressure you to waste yours on me. But I will admit that I’m grateful when you do.
💚 Gus
