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A project:

No.

I can't do it.
I don't want to.
I want all my secrets back.
I want to confess all over again.

It's not cathartic.
It makes you weak.
It all comes back again.

This is not what I am writing.
I am not writing this.
Someone else is writing this.

I am disembodied.
I can shake this body.
I am talking nonsense.

Again.

This is healthy.
This is unhealthy.
This is healthy.
This is unhealthy.

Again.

Little

I'm not as smart as I've been led to believe. I tend to forget this. Yes, it's true, I am quite intelligent. But there's a little circle here and a GIANT circle there, and only one of them is me.

I like being the little circle. I like being aware of being the little circle. It's important that I find things in the world, people, exceptionally, to remind myself that I am the little circle.

I don't think there's anything worse for me than being told that I am smart, or well put together. It deadens me. I live for learning. I live to grow. I live to see new things, to breathe new air, to walk barefoot on new lands, to drink in all the things I never knew I never knew. Tell me I'm smart, tell me I'm a found person, it's like putting a stopper in a bottle, like clipping a vine, like caging an animal.

I like being the little circle. I like knowing that a projection of me would only make the big cicle bigger. I like thinking that my brain is blossoming. A flower in bloom. I'm far from done. My brain is a geranium and my soul is it's stem and the sun and the sky and the rain will nourish them while my feet travel this earth picking up roots along their way.

Amen.