about not knowing what to write
It feels like holding my breath and waiting for the right time to exhale, except I don’t know what I’m waiting for. If there even is a right moment. What happens if I breathe out at the right time? I don’t know why I imagine it is a breath I can’t get back when I don’t understand why I am holding it in the first place. I guess I foolishly think my breath connects to my thoughts and every little good idea, story, and scarily honest feeling travels from the top of my head, down the stem of my brain, to the space behind my tongue, and outside of my lips into some invisible vapor I can no longer hold. And what if I do make something of this breath? What if, by some stroke of luck, I manage to catch it in my hands, then what? I imagine I will guard it fiercely for no good reason, trapping it in my sweaty hands because I am too scared to know what will happen if I use it for something. Maybe, again, it will disappear, or it will evolve into a horrible version of itself. Fear, either way. Fear, all ways. I let a little breath seep out. Maybe it isn’t so much about loss than it is about the ambiguity of forging something new from something so raw.