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Sometimes, I feel this pressure building in my chest—an unnamed heaviness, dull and low, like an overcast sky that never quite lets the rain fall. And on those days, I want to scream—not in anger, but in mourning. As if I’m grieving for something vague and distant, maybe even imaginary. I want to scream part of my thoughts into the void, hoping they'll scatter and settle somewhere. Not to be heard. Not to be understood. Just to exist beyond me. And yet, I’ve spent too much time—years, even—thinking too hard about the logistics of screaming into the void. Like, which app do I use? There’s X (the husk formerly known as Twitter). I thought about it, briefly. But the place feeds on instant judgment. It devours you the moment you step outside the boundaries of the identity you've unintentionally built. I think some people followed me because of one hit tweet—one viral moment that said, “This is who I am.” But I’m not that moment. Not anymore. Maybe I never was. Now, when I post anyt...
