Do I like being a deck of cards in the air, a swirl of ocean foam, a migratory bird without a home, having no place to live that I know of in this moment? Maybe...
It doesn't feel free; it just feels like life. Where we can only be certain of uncertainties.
And so should I give up the need to know what's next. Anything at all could be next. Anything at all...
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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-oh, writing process- on Metaphor
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Like how you started this.
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