About morning pages..
Blank ended, I feel nothing, but the touch of a hand in
statue pose; my life elsewhere, the rim
beyond the ceiling in the general direction of up. Statue froze in third person,
still-fully held, so much against the will. The will should never be a frozen
thing, it should be a moving tableau of
your own volition, where you speak safe and halt at will on your own demand, your demand, your boundaries, your right to walled-nonwalls. But I erect
mine high, I am a boundary farmer, cultivating distance from contact with skin.
He is too much, I lost my edges, that centimeter space around my own periphery. He
tore kin away from me, examining me stiff rigid, creating a split from end to end. The blank formed memories, act as
vital stuffing, the blanket between contact, and misery. Too much analysis, too
many pondering eyes, I retreat to escape.
I split to survive. MB
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