There is always so much in my head, so crammed together in there, so little space feels left for the things I feel like I need, even if I don’t know what those are, exactly, or haven’t quite found a way to put them into words. Still, knowing that I need something else, that feels like something too: it feels like weight, like pressure, a burden on the shoulders, a dull ache in the legs that never goes away. These things, this tedium in my head, all the thoughts that get collected, all the feelings that gather, all the words that pour in every moment, all the minutes of everything around me, my environment, my own poor soul that I think too much on, that I anchor down with my silly worries that feel so important so much of the time; all of this; all of that; all of everything. I love words but hate how my own look on the paper. I hate them for how badly they want to be heard, how nakedly desperate they become by the end of a sentence. How I sit down to write wonderful, important things but always end up with this. I have high hopes for each paragraph, but I get further away from what I mean to say with each additional word, further away from anything approaching truth or anything else worth hearing. I can’t tell whose time I’m wasting more: mine or yours.
