I envy people who can express themselves from the inside out. Dancers who make you feel something. Painters who make you feel something. Singers who tug at your heart strings. Writers who can draw you in to a world that takes you somewhere.
I had a thought a few years ago – ‘my mind is going to kill me’. I know that writing can save me but sometimes it feels ironic that thinking and writing is what saves me from thinking. I wish that something else could save me. I wish that I could save you with something else.
What am I so afraid of?
Having nothing to say,
and everything at the same time
What does it mean to say?
Say. What can be said. Without.
Saying it, really.
Who do you say it to?
Or for… really.
What does it mean to be?
When we learn to be
Isn’t that saying it all, really…
How do I say it? I don’t know. How do you navigate this life? Just some thoughts on a low day.