Tangled Leaves

My uncertainty comes with a plethora of options. It's a fully stocked-up future, displaying more possibilities than I want to choose from. Patches in clear focus and intriguing blur around the edges.



I resort to bitterness when I write about myself. It's easier. Holding myself in the space of optimism requires more resolve than I can dedicate to my fingers. Does that make sense?

I've been writing every day, 200 to 400 words, expanding my projects piece by piece. It doesn't feel like enough. I have a romantic idea(l) of myself drinking watered-down orange juice and loving the heat that comes through the window, pounding my dreams into a Word doc. I can imagine keeping this up for hours, pouring out my history and poring over my present, for an entire arc of sunshine, not noticing how the Earth is circumscribed by light.

I think I just accidentally took the Catholic Church's position regarding Copernicus.