I've printed out numerous pages of paper, i've edited and scraped and gathered and cut and pasted and torn and spilled ink on unimaginable amounts of letters and punctuation. My first short story is finally done, roughly. Mostly I cannot stop reading it over and over and tripping over my words and listening to my heart beat through the slow trains of sentences sounding their whistles in my brain while the impact heads deeply down to my stomach. I think im fastened to this place of tenderness and devotion and adoration and idolization and loyalty. Im stuck in a place with blurred lines and wonderment, where the possibilities are endless and more then anything really, you just want to hold hands. I assume too much, and I take too much to heart. I hurt easily and i've failed to build up the walls that so many around me have slowly constructed over each passing birthday party, each added year, each drunken night. Im thrown into full body nostalgia when this or that song comes on. Im cuddled up to movies, im sobbing in the piano room, im smiling at a letter, im driving in the car with my head on someones shoulder. Im lighting incense and laying on the floor watching shadows on the ceiling while the wind creeps through open windows crossing delicately across my arms. Im watching footage of young small animals, with fast pulses and hurried breath almost making me cry, because my pace is not slow and steady and thought out like it should be, like hers was, or his was, my pace has no direction or resolution, my pace is quick and going no where and crouching low and ready to pounce and at this pace, everything feels like something else.
