At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries, and eases the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self made prescription, wipe up the tears, and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
Here, everything spills into three quiet corners. A love of lines, where I collect words written by others that feel like they were somehow meant for me too. Diary entries, where life is kept as it is, unfiltered, unpolished, just lived. And creative writings, where I try to turn what is inside into something I can finally look at without it burning.
Updated: Oct 14, 2020
You know, sometimes, I miss the gentle flow of air hugging my ribs, how care would wrap me tightly from a word said or a told story. I miss the idea followed by a smile. It might not be wise to miss it all, but, at times, I do when the sorrowful regret decides to escape reality-check meetings at least once in too long.
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