Therapy Bits

I am an amateur, though I do not say it with shame. My sentences stumble like children learning to walk, knees scraped, palms dirty with earth. I write because the silence inside me needs a doorway, because thoughts pile up like unsorted laundry, heavy with yesterday’s rain. I am not hunting perfection—I am searching for breath. Each word I scatter on the page is a lantern lowered into the dark river of myself, trembling, yet glowing. I write to soothe, to mend, to remember that chaos can be carried gently if shaped into syllables. Writing is not my craft, not yet—it is my therapy, my stitching thread, my unpolished prayer. And even if the lines are crooked, even if the ink smudges, the act itself is a kind of healing: proof that I am here, still trying, still making light with my fragile hands.

Amateur – Word of the Day Challenge