Kyla Andrea Borja

If my inner voice were a separate entity, she would be the antithesis of my outward persona—a contradiction in motion. She is obnoxiously loud, sometimes drowning out the voices outside the wall, and I would listen intently. In solitude, she’s at her peak, unfettered and unrestrained. Silence outside becomes the fertile ground for the loudest thoughts and the wildest imagination. I’ve amassed an abundance of drafts and notes hidden in my phone, the products of those sudden bursts of inspiration.

However, here’s the thing. Those ideas remain just that—ideas. Walls of paragraphs sit idly in my notes, likely never destined to see the light of day. The result is an ever-growing collection of untold stories, each a testament to what could have been. This unintentional suppression is suffocating at times. My head feels perpetually bent under the weight of creative juices that never stop flowing. I know something has to change. An outlet is needed. A way to let these ideas escape before they stagnate and go to waste. Thus, I found a reason to write.