On Journaling:

I write, finding solace in the idea that these words are my own. That no other eyes will graze this page and that my dreams and delusions live in solitude.

Simultaneously, that is precisely why I write, finding emptiness after every sentence. Like I am screaming into the void without even an echo to affirm my thoughts. My dreams and delusions stay stagnant. They do not know what it feels like to converse with another soul.

At what point does the discomfort of isolation outweigh the relief of uninhibited expression?