Sometimes words just find their way to my fingertips. Tethering on the edge, almost tumbling onto the page. Making a mockery of the solidarity I feel. Releasing a loneliness nobody understands...
Only if my thoughts could leap onto the page and form phrases, sentences, metaphors, that make others believe, understand and have hope, will I be free. Happy. Satisfied.
In the meantime, I'll keep this energy bottled within, which simultaneously, in some strange way, keeps me whole. Keeps me alive. Keeps words feverishly falling but never quite making it onto blank pages...
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