habit

all i can do is write.

to put to words these feelings; the not-quite-demons.

otherwise they will churn into a sour butter, deep in the gut, to cause painful, gaseous bubbles that cause tears, questions, and poor self-image. call it a yeast infection to one's identity. itchy, raw, it burns to feel. but it is shameful not to. (as it is to end a sentence with a preposition).

grow up, that's life. this is life. life hurts. be spartan.

it takes kilojoules to keep me from building that wall that i sensed was missing before. to place brick to mortar, mortar to brick. to set down that layer of foundation is comfort in itself. but to casually lay down the first layer becomes momentum to set down the second...the third...the fourth...inertia.

feel. take a risk. let yourself go to feel the human connection. (but--finger to lips, shhhh, and a whisper--it could hurt).

but in the shades of gray, there is a glow of color. of reds and blues, yellows and greens, an orange or two. i can't help but smile because life is about expanding, growing, cultivating, and knowing. and there is no better way to becoming that better, bigger, more beautiful person than feeling the hardships.