brush pen

mostly, these days i’ve been making ink drawings and going to work. the cold has been bitter and awakening and painful on my skin, but it’s a little warmer now, and i’m glad we don’t have to worry about slipping, or scraping ice off the windshield.

there are too many life circumstances to write about here that would be a large essay, too many things that if said shortly would beg more explanation. mostly i am struck with a sense of unfairness, and of wondering why those things need to be written or spoken about. technically, i don’t have to do anything. i have a right to speak and not speak. it’s been worse one way, and much better (a bit better) in another way. it’s been about sorting memories and feelings and trying to ask for help but not knowing how. it’s been about looking fine, maybe (definitely) lying to my family, trying to feel safe, and letting my hands take over when i draw.

hopefully soon, or however long, i won’t have to forcibly put it behind me. or hold it in front of me, either.