I don't want the edited version anymore. I want the friction. I want to feel the ache in my legs after walking until the sun goes down. I want to feel the lump in my throat when a song hits the exact frequency of a memory I thought I’d buried. I want to feel the terrifying, beautiful vulnerability of looking someone in the eye and saying something true, without knowing if they’ll say it back.
Lately, everything has felt like a rehearsal. I move through the rooms of my life with a polite distance, touching surfaces but never quite gripping them. I wake up, I drink the coffee, I answer the emails, and I watch the clock hands shave off seconds of a day I barely inhabited. It is a quiet kind of vanishing.
We spend so much time buffering ourselves. We buy the softer rug, the noise-canceling headphones, the filtered lens. We curate our discomfort out of existence until we are left in a sterile, temperature-controlled vacuum. But joy doesn't grow in a vacuum. Neither does grief, or wonder, or the wild, messy thrill of being alive.
Should it be more or grounded and narrative ?
If you'd like to adjust the or direction of this piece, let me know:
Is there a (joy, melancholy, anger) you want to center?
I don't want the edited version anymore. I want the friction. I want to feel the ache in my legs after walking until the sun goes down. I want to feel the lump in my throat when a song hits the exact frequency of a memory I thought I’d buried. I want to feel the terrifying, beautiful vulnerability of looking someone in the eye and saying something true, without knowing if they’ll say it back.
Lately, everything has felt like a rehearsal. I move through the rooms of my life with a polite distance, touching surfaces but never quite gripping them. I wake up, I drink the coffee, I answer the emails, and I watch the clock hands shave off seconds of a day I barely inhabited. It is a quiet kind of vanishing. i_need_to_feel
We spend so much time buffering ourselves. We buy the softer rug, the noise-canceling headphones, the filtered lens. We curate our discomfort out of existence until we are left in a sterile, temperature-controlled vacuum. But joy doesn't grow in a vacuum. Neither does grief, or wonder, or the wild, messy thrill of being alive. I don't want the edited version anymore
Should it be more or grounded and narrative ? I want to feel the lump in my
If you'd like to adjust the or direction of this piece, let me know:
Is there a (joy, melancholy, anger) you want to center?
