11.3.22

The intensity needed to sustain such definite, specific devotion defeats me. The thing about language is that I can't live without it. The thing about writing is that I asked it to never leave me but it is always leaving me. No one is telling me how to live the days. No one is telling me why this when and where. How much I want to climb the mountain to confirm that it is only a mountain. Alone at home, I step barefoot on the wood knowing it is far from that. 

Rinsing my hands clean of this I sit down to dinner. Feeding only myself feels like a sin.