When I wasn’t writing, I was applying to every ivy league school in the country.
I set my alarm for 6 am each morning and woke up at 5.
I counted how many heartbeats it took my feet to get from the bed to the floor and always lost count after 100.
When I wasn’t writing, I lusted over warm steel and bone white bathtubs; cried at the sight of mountains that tried their best to be bigger than God then salivated at the thought of letting the ocean and gravity duel over my body.
When I wasn’t writing, I was scared. Afraid that the lines and words scrawled on napkins and bedside reading material between sleeps would never be more because I couldn’t brave the space between a pen and notebook, between my fingertips and a keyboard.
When I wasn’t writing, I sat on my hands and yelled at people, at walls and at myself.