Terror for me, in its purest form, is providing unfiltered information about myself to comment on. In an age of people being able to easily offered unsolicited advice – often without context – I’ve developed a steady habit of writing my thoughts in ways that can’t be read; to maintain my joy in a secret place that no one can touch.
Lately, however, with everything happening, I have to wonder if the increasing lack of sleep and the suppression of crackling energy is worth it. The unwritten pages are turning into blood in my palms and it’s dripping into the bed, onto the bus, into tons of times I am withdrawn but somehow up at 6AM.
So I’m going to do this thing of maybe putting things that are, somehow, closer to me than everything I’ve publicly written and let you read it.