It’s hard to write.

Sometimes, writing is like a running faucet, a constant stream of ideas and thoughts. Other times, writing is painful and human and it brings me to places I’m not ready to go to, that I don’t want to go to, or that I’m just flat ignoring any existence of. There are days, occasionally many in a row, when there is just too much that hurts, too much that is frightening, too much that leaves me wondering if good really is stronger than evil. I move through these days because time propels me forward, but I’m not positive I’m fully aware of this momentum. I worry that if I write, if I open myself up to the faucet I’ve turned off, I might drown in the worries, the anger, the numbness. It’s incredibly difficult to control the stream, to let the thoughts trickle and swirl instead of rush and thrash. But if I don’t turn the faucet on at all, those fears and the swelling bitterness about the wrongs surrounding me remain to fester inside my mind. Clearly, I should write more, but I think writing this alone, this acknowledgement that writing can be a slippery plane to cross with caution, is enough for today.