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.
"But is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
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