I want to write about how I feel disillusioned.
But then I’m relieved to see things the way they are.
I want to write about this grief.
But then I’m relieved to let this grief have no language.
I want to write about systemic guilt and innocence.
But then I’m relieved to focus on my own maturation.
I want to write about nervous system activation.
But then I’m relieved to rest.
I want to write about the enemy within and without.
But then I’m relieved to not cast my fear out there.
I want to write about the power of denial.
But then I’m relieved to keep getting out from under my own.
I want to write about my blindspots.
But then I’m relieved to know we all have them.
I want to write authentically.
But things are moving so fast, it’s hard to stay rooted.
I want to write about finding escape velocity.
But I’m afraid if I name it, I’ll lose it.
I want to write about the intrusive image of taking cover.
But then I’m relieved to take better my mother.