I seldom write. I am unmoved.
But when a light gust of wind knocks me down bracing me to the dirt that once shifted beneath my feet, I become anchored to the ground. Unable to get up.
Still gasping for air. Feeling every sharp inhale. Exhaling shards of glass. Writing becomes the only thing.
It is in this solace of desperation truth becomes comfort and solitude becomes a fortress.
I once heard ‘obsession’ imagined as “being in a ditch and having bullets shooting at you from all angles. You want to get out, but you do not know where they are coming from”. I am not obsessed, but this is what it must feel like.
I do not know when I see more clearly; when I am on the ground seeing every crevice and crack, feeling every stone and deep edge in the trenches or when I am standing upright with my head fully immersed in the powdered clouds ignorant of myself and my place in the world.
This state of being is where I have lodge my temporary home. This is where I write.