i have considered my needs.i have wondered. i have wandered i have flirted with insanity. i have seduced insanity.
deep into the writing of a novel, i start to draft another story that is not fiction. i can barely draw the distinction between fiction and non-fiction, much less keep them separate. i draw and all my frustration surfaces. i want to draw more. writing has became slow and tedious, a toiled labour. writing is my obsession. this is my predicament. it is my love. my love, my first love?
i could not have prepared better for this time. it could be that comfort is not what life is all about. i am curious.
are discomfort and ease ever simultaneously possible?
this winter i fell in love with a man, this spring i fell in love with a cherry tree.
i believe in nothing at all. not in the words, not in the images, not even in your existence
i need to breathe.
