08.02.26

I was trying to find my way back to writing in the dark. There was the sound of language, which was also the sound of the waves, and from the brief moment of time where I understand what it meant to be a free person. It sounded like listening for the sound of my own footsteps, of lightning, of the snow underfoot, of the candle held close to the chest, of L saying to me "this is perfect, I don't even care what happens next." Each place called home, fading into the next. This decade of running away from childhood into whatever is next. So what's next? And what of the empire? Of family and love? What of these flowers that my grandmother has clipped without direction, and their petals which have fallen back onto the ground. 

What did I want? Maybe for someone to understand why I've kept my silence, for someone who understands how it feels like there isn't anything I can say after witnessing the world. Someone who can help me accept it.