i try to speak but i cannot / words were harder than i thought / i tried to run to You but i’m stuck / and i can’t move / but i feel it in my veins / a change is taking place / breaking free the mould i’ve made / i’m starting to move . . .
love you back, addison road
I’ve been trying to find words to write, any words to write, for over a week now. I typically have no shortage of words, and yet, I am at a standstill.
So I write about having no words.
Writing, for me, has been as much therapy as anything. It’s a healing process in and of itself, it’s a healing process in reading back those words weeks, months, years later. It has been that kind of a process since I was nine years old. I write less so to write and more so to find something inside of it–inside of me–later on. And when I feel like I have nothing to uncover–or nothing I really want to find inside myself–then I unfortunately shove it aside.
Yet, likely, in those moments, I need it then, too.
The stagnancy. The routine.
Things I do not like.
Maybe the words help me break free of that as well.