novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- and here i am again i used to be so good at it, for years and years. my diligent journaling. sometimes this ease creeps back into me, and it's as if my body's circulation has improved. it feels like my blood is focusing. honing. other times i am too daunted by the blank page or screen staring back at me. i keep forgetting that it's easier to live in the present without critiquing it. to tell stories of the everyday, yes; to define the everyday, no. the absence of definition fills you. it is enough, then, to hear yourself breathe. writing is solitude. no wonder i've had writer's block for a few years; i became afraid to be alone. eventually (ironically) i met someone i simply wanted to talk to. to say anything to. it was nice, it opened me up. he didn't couldn't maybe one day we'll just say goodbye now it's ok i'll just say didn't want me. it made me feral, and here i am again, housetraining myself. being patient now. being patient again. waffling, and coming back to patience. sometimes when my heart waffles it feels shaky like a chiwuawa. all tiny and bug-eyed. shaking. you know, i think we can handle anything if we slow down enough. i think we are enough. none of this has to mean anything. it just has to exist. 2:10 am - 11.17.07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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