wounds uow i've tried to rid myself of these wounds but they never seem to go away no matter how much time and love i give they're just always there, barely hiding. i don't want to hate. i don't want to hurt. 040824 ... Soma I've been struggling lately with the feeling that █ ████ ███ and it feels like i've lost a part of myself. And I've felt so lost here. I've felt a a bitter outsider riddled with guilt about it all. I wrote back to a stranger this week, who had spied a bit of my open heart and lit it up as the sun shining through a lens might illuminating a whole room of feeling and at long last I felt — I don't know. seen? wounded? scared? maybe all of it. angry, I think. over lost time and lost ability It was like someone peeled back the scab I was already picking at and rinsed the pustulent wound. June laid it bare, just like the sun. And I knew they were right. What a terrible thing, to be seen. What a gift, to be given vision by another. I have never thought much about how writing has been not just from me. It was been from us. It has always been a result of the frenzy of pain that culminates in a euphoric release of words. Or else a brute forced attempt to feel something akin to that sweetness, without the prerequisites. I realized that I don't really know how to write from somewhere else. It has meant that writing has left me hungry and hollow and wanting and discontent. It's strange to exist and be happy and hale. It's strange that happiness has created unhappiness. I guess I have to learn to write again for some other feeling perhaps or some deeper self but even now I weep 250610 what's it to you? who go blather from