Writing Without Intention

I don’t write at night.
Not anymore.

I write during the day, in small, disciplined windows – like work, like care.
Routine is not a cage for me; it’s a safety rail.
Being bipolar taught me that creativity doesn’t need to be pushed to the edge to exist.
It needs rhythm.
Limits.
Breathing space.

So I sit down.
I divide my hours between books, posts, social media, drafts.
I write with structure.
With direction.

And yet –
some of the most honest things I’ve ever written were born without intention.

No plan.
No destination.
No reader in mind.

Just a sentence that arrived first.
A thought that insisted.
A question that wouldn’t let me go.

When I write knowing no one will read, something changes.

I loosen my grip.
I dare more.
I stop translating myself into something acceptable.
The language gets rawer.
More visceral.
Less polite.

It’s not that I become someone else.
It’s that I stop protecting the edges.

Most texts begin with a single line.
A phrase that feels like a knot or a door.
Sometimes it’s a doubt.
Sometimes a certainty I don’t fully trust yet.

The rest comes later – organized, edited, questioned.
But the beginning?
The beginning is almost always instinct.

My writing doesn’t come from nowhere.
It comes from memory.
From watching people.
From living.
From carrying moments that refuse to stay quiet.

Sometimes, writing without intention surprises me.
Sometimes it saves me — quietly, without drama.
Sometimes it just sits beside me and does nothing at all.

And that’s enough.

Writing doesn’t always need to teach.
Or heal.
Or explain.

Sometimes it is just company.
A mirror.
A place where I can think out loud without being interrupted.

When I don’t ask anything of the writing, it gives me clarity.
Not answers – clarity.
The kind that lets me see myself and others with fewer defenses.

When I write without intention, I’m not trying to impress.
I’m trying to provoke – gently.
Others, yes.
But mostly myself.

I write to unsettle certainty.
To open space.
To inspire without instructions.

And maybe that’s what writing without intention really is:

Not a lack of purpose –
but trust.

Trust that the words know where they’re going,
even when I don’t.