That was the year, my sixteenth, when I discovered I could play with my grief through the words spitting out of me. I used to dream of being a poet, even if deep inside I knew that all I've ever wanted was to be a poem—somebody else’s poem. Being in an ocean of creative writers feels like wearing a vest without being bulletproof. The words seem like daggers in motion, wanting to release the runaways in us, ironically, while escaping in a cramped habitat. My drafts have remained consistent since the day I wrote my first piece of prose: emotionally impulsive, excessively substantial, with too much giddiness and grieving. As I've grown in nature, I tend to repeat what hurts me, and then I write them again through revisions. For the past years, there has been an aching stillness in my void that I am sure even the universe has never shaken. And maybe that’s why I still keep on writing. My mother did not scream me into this world just for me to have silence as my last name.