It is strange to write. The release is addictive, though I am unsure if my posting quality remains the same. As my emotions flow into this threw thing, each post after being written seems less profound, more normal, not at all still the same. Perhaps I write too much, perhaps I need another thing. Maybe I should build, to carve, or sculpt with clay, or make a table or a ring.
I am however glad I chose to begin this path, the release of many things. I feel better with every post, and can feel their memory. So soothed I feel. Though I find the more I write, the simpler I become. More rhythm in my words is found, less like paragraphs more like something else. Perhaps its only available to me. Unseen by others, as they don’t write the words in order, or hear my mind as they ring.
Also, I seem to love words that end with I, N, and G. But cannot tell if that is a normal thing