I spend too much time in my head. Every time I am “thinking” I should just write. I think I used to do that, and the habit has been lost from me somehow. Maybe my demons tried to take it from me.
Time flies by and in some moments I am a swirling mess, twisting and terribly dancing in the wind of it.
The untethered mind is insane. I have to take its contents and bring them into the physical world, to tame it.
Any energy spent thinking about life
is energy diverted
from creating life.
I am here to create. I cannot settle for less
I become less than I am, become weak, when I hold it all in my head
Words spoken aloud aren’t enough
Something physical needs to be created
This pen creating a line on the page
it is translating raw energy from me,
energy that, when stopped up,
So much of my life had been
toxic and self-destructive
At the root is denial of the natural self,
denial of the natural impulse
I am here
to add to what is around me
Here, energy, take this pen and go.
I don’t need to know where you come from,
or what comes out of you.
Just take it and go,
so I can be released.
I am never trapped
except by myself
Discomfort is always there when I don’t let the flow out
I want my creations to be beautiful…
but I need to create.
Can I become good at something in isolation?
Am I good enough?
Questions like this feel bad, feel small,
they make me unsure
what is the point of writing?
What is the point of anything?
Is this supposed to be my craft?
It’s the thing I’ve always done, I guess.
That, and doubt myself.
“Emma, I’m grateful for the way you weave your words.” -Livia
What about my eating disorder?
I always thought I’d do something with it.
And I haven’t.
I had an eating disorder.
That seems like a long time ago now.
It was a different lifetime.
I am a different person now.
Leaves have fallen from that lifetime,
dried, drifted in the wind, landed, been stepped on and crunched, rained on, snowed on, frozen, thawed, decomposed
and from that decomposed matter
a seed sprouted
This body has seen many seasons,
none of them are “mine”
but my mind wants to hold it and claim it,
like it wants to claim these words,
wants them to be golden and reflective
I was afraid of carbohydrates, back then.
One day I had a bike race. For breakfast I ate fish and steamed vegetables
that I cooked for myself. I didn’t eat the food my mother cooked.
“Breakfast of champions,” I lied.
I’ve spent most of my life lying.
Lies are a big fucking web.
Where did it start?
I’m all tangled up…
I remember stealing money from my grandmother’s wallet
when I was small.
The feeling was frantic, hurried, needy, greedy, afraid.
I still have an eating disorder. It’s just more “normal”, maybe, whatever that means.
…I sneak food when everyone else leaves.
Not fat. Not skinny. More healthy.
I think being better now is just about being okay with the weird things I do.
I forgive myself.
I have ups and downs.
I don’t take it so seriously.
Food is something I like to share with people.
It’s also something I like to share with myself.
Do I want to grow out of it completely?
The part of me that knows it can live without fear never needed small sources of refuge and comfort.
I can’t think about what will happen if I do X thing.
If I think like that, I am always living for the outcome, instead of living in the moment.
Maybe writing is like that.
Do it, because I absolutely can be
flowing and in the moment when I
am doing this.
I want God to touch me and to light up a path for me to walk. Open up my heart, I want to live from there. Break me down where I am overly self-protective. I want to be naked and real. I want to feel, and I want to create.