screaming at walls with my hands glued together

after recording myself and playing it back numerous times, i am coming to the realization that 1) i am very awkward in movement, 2) i have come A LONG way from my depressed, entirely un-creative void of pre- europe erin this time last year.

i am also beginning to understand the concept of losing oneself in a performance. there are poems that i am so voluptuously passionate about that i am instantly transported back to the place from which i wrote them. i have ages to go, spoken-word wise, art wise, poetry-wise, LIFE wise, but i’m feeling good. there’s a buzzing in my bones, a sort of freedom batting its wings in my chest.

i’m growing at an inexplicable rate, and i’m moving on from the idyllic kerouac-ian almost-love of this long winter. i’m expanding.

things are far from perfect, and, hell, why would i want them to be? but i’m getting better at this writing-without-having-to-be-miserable thing.



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