Sometimes I feel like a nostril collecting words of snot in my fine little hairs waiting for the finger to come take the words away and put them down on paper somewhere. Other times the words stain the paper like blood flowing from the wounds in my self esteem.
“Writers of fiction.” He spat the word fiction like it was a crime against humanity. He may not be wrong.
I built a tall tower with no foundation. Now it sinks into the swamp of my longing. Starting over and over, running in a circle of creative options. Defining without context.