how do i reach out and grab it? to begin with, how do i find what im looking for? im told it resides in plain sight, that i already have it, that i just have to see it for it to be there, but maybe im blind. so without sight i dive back into what’s comfortable—light, blood and guts and love, dirt, mycelium and moss, obsession, consumption—i don't branch out, why would i do that? i know what works.
im so sick of it. im tired of myself. im tired of it all. maybe im a fraud, maybe i’ve never known writing. im a six trick pony, i’ve done what i need to do and now i’ve got nothing left.
so what now? now i have to complain about it? that’s my next performance, my next skill? self loathing? we’ve all had enough of that, there's no need for another—and yet here we are.
pick up a writing prompt.
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