Some days, I wake with fire in my bones and on my tongue, words crackling like sparks ready to burst into flame, and revolution is at my fingertips.
Some days, I wake and find my words smothered and muffled, wrapped in a fog that I struggle to make sense of. My words feel trapped, hidden somewhere that I cannot reach; the embers inside me have gone cold, and my fingers are clumsy, stilled by the frost that has leached into my mind.
These are the days that I reach out blindly and greedily seek others' words instead, desperate for second-hand heat, hoping that I will find tinder and kindling to set me ablaze once more.
I miss my own words. I don't know where to find them, or how. The fog is too thick, and I am too tired to burn it away.
Some days, I wake and find my words smothered and muffled, wrapped in a fog that I struggle to make sense of. My words feel trapped, hidden somewhere that I cannot reach; the embers inside me have gone cold, and my fingers are clumsy, stilled by the frost that has leached into my mind.
These are the days that I reach out blindly and greedily seek others' words instead, desperate for second-hand heat, hoping that I will find tinder and kindling to set me ablaze once more.
I miss my own words. I don't know where to find them, or how. The fog is too thick, and I am too tired to burn it away.
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