I am jealous of the little kid
spinning around near the fountain.
What would these people think
if I were to start spinning
with my arms spread wide?
A lunatic on drugs, probably.
My greatest accomplishment here is not caring,
letting go of other people’s opinions.
I am not wound as tight.
I can let go,
just no spinning yet.
I do not care so much what I am to others as I care what I am to myself.
The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy… and that’s on a good day.
You said redemption looked like a painting of fire, after a fire.