Anything I publish online I usually regret. So much that I’ve deleted to recreate several times. Not to make this a confession, just a concession of my psyche.
Who’s to say this’ll be enough.
But when the paranoia monster doesn’t visit I do find something out of writing here. Or, I mean, it seems to be a fact anyway.
If you spend all of your life holding yourself to silence—well, at this rate I will—I fail to engage…? I engage with the few items on my list but I don’t engage the other parts of my mind.
There’s little room for stretching. Stretching your legs.
I was looking for a word opposite of “Atrophy” and so I clicked on “flourishing” which just not close. “Stretching” seems okay and feels most appropriate, because I don’t want to evoke a lush expansion. It’s not a mission. It’s just wanting to interact with the other parts of myself.
But as I write this I find myself okay with never publishing. It’s not like I’ve anyone in mind to talk to. And it’s not like there’s anything to exchange.
But I guess the delusion of sorting things into pages helps with writing, and that’s the point here, to write and observe whether there are perks to doing so.