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First post & small piece on writing
Oct. 30th, 2025 11:51 pmHey all, or anyone, or no one. Doesn't really matter that much.
I came here because for the longest time I've been seeking a platform to post my writing, just to let it out in the world. Problem is, most of the writing I do is just journal entries, and they are way too personal to post somewhere I'm known, but also not tangible enough to weave into a story, and not poetic enough to simply post as poetry. So, a blog of my heart it will be. I will most likely post random old entries I happen to like for some reason or other, and include the date.
My hope is that somewhere, someone, will read something I've written and feel it resonate. That will already mean something. I'm Finnish, so I might write in Finnish, though I doubt anyone who understands it will come across it.
To start off, here's something I wrote about writing in my notes, earlier this year (and I'm warning you now that my stylistic use of lowercase is quite inconsistent, bear with me)
--
I feel this itch, this restlessness,
to write, to create, to consume
a work that satisfies some itch
to spend hours carelessly
digging into that spark
but I feel a hurry –
a rush, a clapping of hands in the back of my mind somewhere, forcing me to pick, to best distribute my time
to go to sleep now? to lay down word on paper, to look for a work to read that would satisfy me, to keep looking, all the while feeling that itch, scrolling, scrolling, never quite satisfied, like sitting on the edge of a bench
–and there it is again! back there! do you feel it?
like a flow state, just waiting to be used
oh, how neglectful I have been with my words
always somewhere, waiting to flow, buried under my changing hobbies and ultimately unchanging life
I sometimes feel like a fraud looking at my texts filled with emotion when I often find my emotions so dulled, my life so unchallenging
I cringe at the thought of my old teachers reading my pretentious words
what right do I have to claim for big emotion, when I only wield it for my text like a sword? when it is only the work of my tongue, and not the truth of my heart?
shall I stay as quiet and detached in text as I am in life
or is that simply what I think of myself
I find that I'm more uncertain of really knowing myself the more I learn about myself
anyway
(and this is like texting a friend)
the spark, the itch, has been to write
and honestly any writing will do
I have rather missed it
if only to do it for my own joy and daydreaming, because thinking about doing it consistently, or for a career, or for others to read, stresses me out
I feel fake when I write sometimes, because I feel like it doesn’t sound like my own voice, but rather it twists the more I write because I just want it to sound nice
but I will start journaling again. I will find that joy of writing. and I refuse to feel guilty for writing big or emotional text, even if I can’t feel it in real life. I think art is meant to be bigger and deeper than real life, and I want to create art.
--
If you're this far, have a lovely day, and goodnight from me <3
I came here because for the longest time I've been seeking a platform to post my writing, just to let it out in the world. Problem is, most of the writing I do is just journal entries, and they are way too personal to post somewhere I'm known, but also not tangible enough to weave into a story, and not poetic enough to simply post as poetry. So, a blog of my heart it will be. I will most likely post random old entries I happen to like for some reason or other, and include the date.
My hope is that somewhere, someone, will read something I've written and feel it resonate. That will already mean something. I'm Finnish, so I might write in Finnish, though I doubt anyone who understands it will come across it.
To start off, here's something I wrote about writing in my notes, earlier this year (and I'm warning you now that my stylistic use of lowercase is quite inconsistent, bear with me)
--
I feel this itch, this restlessness,
to write, to create, to consume
a work that satisfies some itch
to spend hours carelessly
digging into that spark
but I feel a hurry –
a rush, a clapping of hands in the back of my mind somewhere, forcing me to pick, to best distribute my time
to go to sleep now? to lay down word on paper, to look for a work to read that would satisfy me, to keep looking, all the while feeling that itch, scrolling, scrolling, never quite satisfied, like sitting on the edge of a bench
–and there it is again! back there! do you feel it?
like a flow state, just waiting to be used
oh, how neglectful I have been with my words
always somewhere, waiting to flow, buried under my changing hobbies and ultimately unchanging life
I sometimes feel like a fraud looking at my texts filled with emotion when I often find my emotions so dulled, my life so unchallenging
I cringe at the thought of my old teachers reading my pretentious words
what right do I have to claim for big emotion, when I only wield it for my text like a sword? when it is only the work of my tongue, and not the truth of my heart?
shall I stay as quiet and detached in text as I am in life
or is that simply what I think of myself
I find that I'm more uncertain of really knowing myself the more I learn about myself
anyway
(and this is like texting a friend)
the spark, the itch, has been to write
and honestly any writing will do
I have rather missed it
if only to do it for my own joy and daydreaming, because thinking about doing it consistently, or for a career, or for others to read, stresses me out
I feel fake when I write sometimes, because I feel like it doesn’t sound like my own voice, but rather it twists the more I write because I just want it to sound nice
but I will start journaling again. I will find that joy of writing. and I refuse to feel guilty for writing big or emotional text, even if I can’t feel it in real life. I think art is meant to be bigger and deeper than real life, and I want to create art.
--
If you're this far, have a lovely day, and goodnight from me <3
