Writing takes from the mind. It needs focus; a fickle thing I haven’t fed enough.
I have given all the stillness room to mutate into thoughts instead.
Knowing very well, this is only my body doing what it already has done, for years.
Physiology, why hold back a tear, already pearling, when just a blink would send it down a hot, flushed cheek. In severe injury, blood is sent back to pool around only the most vital organs. In loneliness it fizzles out and empties into dark fenestrations; lumina of the body’s million capillaries.
I’m trying to get back in, but I cannot guess what you want to hear back from me. One way communication. I am in the blind spot of my Johari’s window, discovering what I really want.
No personal narrative, no cyclical questioning. Only clear on clear, white ice into still water. I know little truth. Even then, I rarely practice everything that I say.
Disclosure opposes the beautiful choice to abstract; in reality, online, in lies, on Substack, in text, in half truth, in confession, in short story—
you will find that I am saying nothing at all.
-swan