Starting a blog felt like I was going against my instinct of being invisible. The idea of immortalising my thoughts was massively uncomfortable — when you are a human undergoing constant change, exposing yourself during this journey leaves you vulnerable to judgement. Because of that I refused to let myself be seen. So, why is TayBi’s Journals in existence?

I initially had an unremarkable relationship with writing. Unlike photography or videography, I was never drawn to writing as a craft per say. Taking it for granted, I didn’t think of writing as a creative outlet. For so long, there was only one piece of creative writing that I was truly proud of: a prose I wrote for my Year 8 English class.

My English teacher was full of spirit, and a known favourite amongst students and staff. I admired her. Though, she never paid me much mind in class. It seemed to me she didn’t think I was particularly gifted, or interesting to talk to. I was a quiet kid, keen on blending in, so my invisibility may have been part of the reason why I felt insignificant to her. Eventually my invisibility to her began to bother me. So, when we were given homework to write a poem about the senses, I decided I was going to use all the vocabulary and literary techniques I knew, and prove myself by impressing that teacher.

My poem took the perspective of a homeless man in twentieth century industrial London. I compared London to a clock that was winding down for the night. How the homeless man fell into insanity when industrial London ground to a halt at the end of the day, because there was nothing to keep his senses occupied and make time pass faster. I wrote about how he was haunted by the dark and his own shadow. I described the sweet scent of baking bread as the next morning crept in, how it filled the man’s nostrils and broke his heart. “But alas, you cannot eat a scent.” I poured my little heart out over that homework assignment — it ended up being multiple pages long, which embarrassed me as I glanced over everyone else’s single-page poems. The poem ended with the homeless man falling asleep, and was titled ‘And he slept forever more’. A shockingly morbid creation by a kid of that age, but I digress…

When my homework was returned to me, I immediately flipped through the stapled sheets to read my teacher’s comments. The margins were filled with positive feedback! On the last page she congratulated me for a poem well-written, and asked if I ever considered being a prose writer! My little heart exploded with pride. I had broken through my invisibility and my effort was recognised. That homework assignment is now carefully preserved in a binder in my childhood room. From time to time I take it out, read over it, and relish its accompanying praise. To relive that memory again is a source of immortalised pride.

Despite that prose being far from revolutionary, I realise now that it sparked something in me. Creating that piece of writing – and having someone enjoy it – was such a rewarding exchange. But blogging still terrified me because… what if that exchange is not rewarding? What if I immortalise an aspect of myself that I no longer identify with, or is rejected by others? This outward search for validation created a fear which paralysed me. Yet, what drove me to want to consider blogging in the first place? What was the fundamental reason why I was drawn to the idea, despite my long-standing fear of visibility? Compared to photography and videography, writing provides an unmatched feeling: the satisfaction of being able to articulate myself vividly and beautifully. I crave this more than ever now as I navigate my turbulent twenties. Not knowing yourself is one thing, but knowing something about yourself and not being able to shed light on that for others is a different kind of suffering. Regularly writing pieces on my thoughts and interests will make my articulation get more vivid and beautiful. The way I portray myself will only get more authentic as I explore this new craft. Gratification from that alone was enough to make me gravitate towards creating TayBi’s Journals. Articles I write will collectively make up a repository of self-immortalised pride. However, unlike my Year 8 homework, the pride in my writing will not stem from someone else’s validation. It will be sourced from my being brave enough to document myself as I unabashedly flit between passions and interests over time. Knowing that I am doing this from a point of self-fulfilment, I can only ever read back on my writing and be irresistibly proud — of myself.