If I don’t write, I can exist in a haze of everyone else’s ‘content’ which is favourably short, overstimulating, loud and dopamine dense because isn’t that what the algorithm tells us we should want these days
If I don’t write, it means I don’t have to face the bitter in the bittersweet, the sadness in the silence, the depth in the dread or the vanishing act of that fair, sweet innocence of the girl once writing here, gone in a puff of smoke into the ether
If I don’t write, the abyss of existentialism and the heavy blackness with which I feel it can remain firmly in the walls of the large well I built for it where sensitivity is the mortar that holds its thick bricks in place
If I don’t write, art can exist in the formless rather than the formed because not everything has to be manifest, not when we’re all just a bit too tired
If I don’t write, I don’t have to think about how your eyes are the fairy pools in the isle of skye where in my mind I hike for hours, our cold hands entwined- caramel and cocoa butter, your sweetness my only solace in it all
If I don’t write, I can forget about Grand Rising Great Mother who will throw it back in our faces as her oceans get warmer, too warm, too terrifyingly warm
The world has felt all bad with no pocket of joy left and with that, my innocence withers and
I
don’t
feel
like
writing
anymore
She paints with words 