You spend your days counting the hours you’re awake
And when night covers the sky you find yourself doing the same
It’s a burden you’ve been burying in spite of all your prayers
As the light turns off inside your heart do you remember
What it’s like to care
Knees are weak, hands are shaking, I can’t breathe
Give me the drug, keep me alive, give me whats left of my life
Don’t let me go
Pull this plug, let me breath
On my own I’m finally free
Don’t let me go
~ Rise Against
Human connections are my occasional anchor to reality.
I really like my own time where I am exploring my inner world and running wild in terms of learning, questioning and exploring.  But sometimes, I get really lost in my head with all my ideas, suppositions and theories about the world, that I drift down in a vortex of abstraction so far away from the present moment that I lose track of what is actually going on. A way that worked for me so far in curbing that is that I reach out and interact with another person in order to validate and double check realities. “This is what is going. This is what I am doing with my life and where I am at. What about you? How’s life? How’s reality? Do we still live this way? Perfect, thank you very much.” The conversation is usually along those lines.
Thus is the life of an introverted thinker.

I want to bring out the worst in you.
I want to make friends with your demons.

I want to stretch you.
I want to possess you.

I want to drive you crazy,
then kiss you.

I have 22 drafts that I have not yet published. The oldest one dates back to December 16, 2016.

Some words are to be written, and not published. Just like secret thoughts that you whisper to yourself, but do not wish to express.

They are only budding and have not yet taken their full shape and meaning, yet they are pushing forward and claiming their place in the space of your mind, and have no intention of ceasing to grow.

I have been writing for the past 30 minutes, lost in the content I was creating, when I caught my husband looking at me and smiling. When I asked him what was up, he said that I was glowing and he couldn’t’t look away.

Writing makes me happy. More than speaking, more than drawing, or any other type of expressive or creative medium. Something about the action of typing down and seeing every letter, slowly giving a shape to my thoughts and the subtle nuances of words that carefully depict ideas and  I find very comforting.

The timing is interesting, because I have been thinking very very hard about the one activity that makes me happiest, and it is and always has been writing; of all genre, in all four languages I speak.

Words make me feel grounded and anchored, and I think I will hold on to them for a little while.