It has been a while since I've made a sentence out of words with my hands and then put them somewhere for other people to see.
Not that long, actually.
Maybe a couple of months.
It feels like an eternity. Like I'm automatically going to ruin all of the things I'd hope to reach for because for now, right now, today and yesterday and maybe even tomorrow and definitely last month, it just wasn't happening.
As though writing is a thing you only do with your hands. As though it is only about showing someone a finish product. As those there are no problems to solve. No perspectives to shift into something more functional than useless.
There's still an itch that I get for someone else's noise in the world before the words sometimes can find a way to make noise together. There's something not quite solid about the words that come out without a net around them.
The words are still jumbled. They do not focus like a knitting pattern a few rows in. They need something different. The work is different. There are no chisels here, only sense and images and the growth of ideas, sparked into life.
Sometimes.
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