Sometimes when I’m with my thoughts, weaving inside these headphones and four walls, I forget my heart beats. When the pen’s in my hand, I get more introspective. I get more me. And that’s a feeling I just can’t scribble out.

    All I know is digging. This pen is my shovel. This page is my dirt. And I just dig—not quite sure if I’m digging for anything in particular, or just to feel shovel on dirt.