this year I want to say I came into my own, but that suggests I reach a state of some permanence and I suppose I don’t fully believe I deserve this comfort, security and confidence—in the value of my own thoughts, existence, whatever. I can be so meek it’s exhausting, then the pendulum swings and I’m puffing myself up past the limits of what my skin can hold. I don’t know how to explain the things I’ve seen, don’t know how to make you believe me.
I make these tracings-collages-visual manifestations of scenes sometimes, been making some lately:
sometimes when I finish one, I feel propelled ahead. I end up in a spot that would’ve taken me two months of writing to reach.