I experience life a little too intensely.
Visually. Emotionally. Almost microscopically.

I notice the pause before someone answers.
The shift in air after certain conversations.
The exact moment a room stops feeling safe.

The way certain afternoons feel heavier than others.

I spend an unreasonable amount of time inside my own head, analysing people, memories, silences, alternate endings, things that never happened but could have.

My mind has always been my favourite place to disappear into.

And somewhere along the way, writing became a way of holding all of it together.
Or maybe I found it when I ran out of places to put everything I was feeling.

Not an escape from reality exactly.
More like creating a version of it I can survive inside... 
maybe one that hurts less to exist inside.