I’ve lost the glue that holds my thoughts together

Despite the state of all this, I choose to begin with the assumption that everything in my life now is exactly how my life should be.

All the emotional puzzles. All the annoyances, frustrations, exhaustions. All the tiny delights. The too-brief/too-long moments that result in a day of life.

What would happen if I believed that every moment, pleasant or unpleasant, is exactly as long as it should be? If the duration of every interaction, pleasant or unpleasant, is precisely the length of the lesson?

What if nothing is a lesson but meaning needs to be assigned or the psyche breaks on itself?

I’m afraid of dictating my own time. I’m apprehensive about my impending hours of imprecision: Free time = time I am free to allocate to generative pursuits. Does creative spark care whether I add or subtract as long as the result is beautiful?

Baking a cake = analyzing plotĀ 

Removing grime from my kitchen floor = assigning character motivation

Watering plants = strengthening a central metaphor

A specific use of my voice equals words following words to create an idea that can exist in someone else’s mind. Meaning generated from a specific allocation of free time.

What would change if I remembered to trust my voice? If I remembered that whispers make you bend closer to my lips? Laryngeal stillness + lingual dynamics = an invitation to meaning

No, I’m not voiceless. Will you listen?

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