“Writing is the painting of the voice.” -Voltaire

My Interpretation: My writing is not rambling. It is translation. It is the clearest version of my voice, the only version that does not tremble.

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THE WALKING OXYMORON ERA – PART 6

There are two versions of me the world keeps trying to merge –
the girl who writes & the girl who speaks.

People assume they are the same person.
They have never lived in my mind.

The version of me who writes is whole.
Clear.
Certain.
Articulate.
Fearless in the ways that matter.

The version of me who speaks is fragmented.
She stumbles.
She hesitates.
She disappears halfway through a sentence.
She gets swallowed by the weight of her own thoughts.

She is not weak.
She is overwhelmed.

Speaking feels like sprinting through fog.
Writing feels like finally seeing the road.

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**When I Text, I Am Not Overexplaining-

I Am Breathing

People see the long paragraphs & assume intensity.
Drama.
Emotion spilling over.

But that is not the truth.

My long texts are the only moments my inner world stops spinning long enough for me to offer it to someone else.

Talking is fast.
Talking demands precision I do not have on demand.
Talking requires confidence I have never owned.

But writing –
writing gives me a minute.
A breath.
A pause between the feeling & the fear.

Writing lets me choose clarity instead of panic.
It lets me choose honesty instead of silence.
It lets me choose myself instead of the version of me that disappears during conversation.

When I write, I can finally bring order to the storm.

Typing is not performance.
It is survival.

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The Quiet Panic of Being Perceived

People think silence means I have nothing to say.
They do not know silence is where I hide the most violent storms.

I freeze when something matters.
My throat closes.
My chest tightens.
My thoughts sprint ahead of me & trip over themselves.

I am three sentences ahead,
two fears deep,
five emotions wide
while trying to look normal.

My silence is not distance.
It is self-preservation.

I do not speak because speaking feels like peeling my skin back in public.
Writing is the only place where vulnerability does not feel like a threat.

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The INFJ Curse –

Feeling Everything at Once

People romanticize INFJs.
They talk about intuition like it is a gift.

It is not.
It is a weight.

I feel the emotional static in a room before I understand my own.
I read tone sharper than words.
I sense disappointment before it is spoken.
I absorb tension like it is oxygen.

My body reacts before my voice can.

Talking becomes impossible when I am already bracing for every emotional outcome at once.
Writing is the only time I get to experience one feeling at a time.

Writing is the only place I am allowed to be human instead of antenna.

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Please Do Not Judge Me

by the Quiet Version

People misunderstand me because they expect communication to look one way –
loud, verbal, immediate.

I do not work like that.

My voice is soft because my thoughts are loud.
My silence is deep because my emotions echo.
My paragraphs are long because my honesty has layers.
My texting is detailed because my heart is detailed.

I am not difficult.
I am deliberate.
I am not cold.
I am cautious.
I am not distant.
I am translating myself in real time.

Talking feels like exposure.
Writing feels like truth.

If you want the truest version of me,
you will find her in the pages,
not the pauses.

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Screens Do Not Hide Me –

They Free Me

Screens do not make me less real.
They make me reachable.

Talking to people in person feels like performing emotional gymnastics.
Letting someone read my writing feels like letting them into my actual home.

My texts are not novels because I am dramatic.
They are novels because I finally feel safe enough to speak in full sentences.

Writing give me the space to be honest
without flinching,
without stuttering,
without choking on thoughts too heavy to say aloud.

If you ever felt closer to me through a message,
do not question it.
That version was real.
She just needed safety to show up.

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The Reflection –

The Contradiction That Finally Makes Sense

I will always be a poet in texts & a ghost in rooms.
Both are true.
Both are me.

Writing is how I make sense of the world.
Speaking is how I survive it.
Typing is the bridge between the two –
the place where my thoughts & my voice finally agree.

I am not asking people to understand me.
Understanding is too much to ask from strangers.

I am asking them to read me.

To see me.
To translate me.
To meet me where my voice actually lives.

If people knew how loud my silence is,
they would never underestimate my words again.

Xoxo ♡