pi & anne

When you began to write, you turned your inner inside out. You wanted to let go, to see your pain dissolve. So as not to drown in the maelstrom of yourself, the hollow of a leaf, night's gathering slowed down, quieted down. You followed the path.

Now you dare again to understand the path as a strand. It may fan out to come together again, a single feather—how you know it is yours to lose?

It has never changed, the fact that you write solely for your self. It is a long letter about being human. You seldom go back and reread, you keep moving. Hey, it's you trying to be your best companion along the way, just that. A sunbathing sunflower sunbathing a still bee.

And when you write for other reasons, the words are pale and contrived. What I want to say is... you love it. Writing. It helps you see and care. And maybe you like yourself a little, too, for this reason:

ink stains.

Keep doing what you need to.