I am here. I am present. I present enough to still my bouncing legs. tranquilize the doubts. numb the demons. face my fleeting emotions. it feels like ecstasy, fingers to the board.
thoughts melting into words, words into thoughts. my inner child screams in wonderment and relief 'you're writing again, you're writing again!'. but, my child. It is not so simple.
I am not so simple. life is not so simple. there are things you've yet to know, and I envy you. I am no writer when my emotions release me.
I am no writer when my traumas cease to bully me in the darkest, coldest, and loneliest corner. I am no writer when I allow happiness into my heart. I am no writer when I'm happy.
so, what do I choose? which life am I? which dream do I fulfill? which door do I close? which do I reopen? I am a jumble of confused thoughts trying to peace me together.
the puzzle with frayed pieces... the scariest thought is never putting myself together...