When I think about writing, the first thing that comes up to my mind is the day when I vigorously wrote my diary everyday. I poured my feelings into my diary. All the burden the 13-year-old me felt, from having bad days in the form of exams to having the greatest day of my life, like going on a trip with my family. Being a girl who could not express my feelings to other human being freely, writing has been my escape of reality and my company. However, writing felt like burden since I entered college. A new kind of burden, I had to write thousand-word-essays relentlessly. I had to write them even when I did not want to. Pouring my feelings into my diary became too hard because it felt like burden. I was burned out. I was alone, far from my family. For a while, I hated writing. Hated how repetitive my essays sounded, hated how repetitive my diary sounded, hated how repetitive my day sounded. I hated repetition. I hated that my escape reality was assosiated with duty. But then, those repetitive days got halted abruptly when I got a call from my aunt. Divorce. My parents were going to divorce. The boring repetitive days somehow sounded like heaven at that time. I felt like walking aroung egg shells. Nothing felt right. Mom and Dad were always fighting, inside or outside the court room. The fight became my new definition of “repetition.” A brand new personal torture made for me. The worst part of it all was the custody battle. I remember thinking “Is my little brother look like unanimated object to them? Why are they fighting like he has no feeling? He is not something to be tossed left and right every two weeks. Do they even think about our sake at all?” While the fight kept happening, I got lost in the middle of it all. Let me tell you something, being a walking peaceful zone is not a fun thing. Trying to stop your parents from fighting in front of my little brother became my daily activity at that time. Still being the girl who could not express her feelings to other human beings freely, I had nowhere to go. I was boiling with my own thoughts and feelings. I felt like I was left alone to deal with this situation, felt like I would break. Breaking down was not a good idea, breaking down in front of my little brother who had not grasp the idea of separation was the worst idea. I still can hear his little weak whispher “Do you think Mom and Dad will ever be back to normal?” and I still can hear the deafening silence that followed the question. I came back to a full circle, I started writing again. I poured all my feelings into my diary. I wrote poems, many if them. I simply had too much emotions to contain, I couldn't bear to surpress them anymore. I had to write, or else I was gonna completely break. I had to distract myself with something, I need to escape the nightmare I was trapped in. Writing has become my escapism, again. Looking back, it probably was not the healthiest way to cope but somehow I manage to go through it all. Writing has helped me so much for the past few years. By this time, many readers may have inkling that English is not my first language with the amount of grammartical errors or spelling errors I have made. I hope it does not lessen the feelings that I want to convey to you. Writing has given me many privileges, privilege to be heard by hundreds or even thousands people around the world, privilege of reality escapism, privilege of companion. Thank you for being my escape of reality when I needed you the most. I probably would not survive those hard years without it. Thank you for accepting my most vulnerable moments and thank you all for reading my little journal. I hope writing does what it does to me, to you.