Last night I lay in bed and had the overwhelming and uncontrollable itch to write.

Like a natural coping mechanism, my mind went to work forming sentences out of the myriad of thoughts swimming around in my head, trying to make sense of the many things troubling me.

Of which there were many.

There was the obnoxious voice of a downstairs neighbor who obviously didn't realize it was midnight on a Tuesday and that people were sleeping, or trying to, in my case.

There was heartbreak tugging at my conscious, the realization that I might be losing one of my best friends over an over-reacted response to a cancellation.

There were the forgotten keys of my roommate that woke me from my slumber, to allow her access in.

And then it was all tossing and turning, with the eventual lull of my silent weeping that I fell asleep, a lullaby of sniffles and wet cheeks.

But there was one situation in particular that put me in an upset state in the first place, and it had to do with someone of the male varietal. 

I can say this in confidence because I know for a fact he does not read my blog, but this particular creature has been playing games with me for the past few years. Leading me on, saying all the right things, promising possibility, all tried and true scenarios that have left me frantically in search of my journal as my thoughts begged to be on paper. 

It was during last night's texting that I finally let it sink in that he never really had the intention of following through. He could talk the talk, but was never able to walk the walk. It stung, as rejection always does, and in between my blurry blinks, I wrote with a fury I was all too familiar with. 

As each day goes by, as the disappointment of the male species continues to sink in, and as more situations pop up that warrant excessive entries in my journal, I realize that writing is my future. It's been my past, it's in my present, and I cannot imagine a future without it. 

In this particular case, and like almost any other case, I write because it's my way of healing, being my own moral support. Since moving here, I've found it difficult to confide in anyone, as I'm not exactly surrounded by good listeners. I have so much to say, so much to ask, and no one to share it with (except Mom, who's always just a phone call away!).

When I'm not writing, I'm constructing stories in my head, blog post beginnings, and my fingers itch to get ahold of a pen or a keyboard. It's the strongest feeling I've had in awhile and if there's one constant, one comfort in this turbulent and whirlwind ride, it's that I have the ability to write about it. 

In the above instance regarding this male individual, it reminded me of my wise and forewarned journal entries I had previously made, of which I had so prudently ignored. 

It took a couple read-throughs of past entries for me to come to terms with the fact that I had it right all along, that this guy was an arse and that I deserved better.

It also made me appreciate how quick I was to write it down in the moment, as I try to do (when I'm not two weeks behind in my person journal, like I am right now...). It's in the heat of the moment that it matters most, and I can now confidently look forward to a future without this peculiar man (really he should be called a boy).

A future free of boys who look like sunshine but are the reason behind tear soaked pillows and devastated journal entries.

Instead, let it be a future full of writing