It is both a blessing and a curse
to feel everything so deeply

writing, for me, is not an act of will
it’s an interruption

arriving unannounced
asking to be carried
a feeling that refuses to dissolve
unless it’s given shape

there’s a responsibility in that
to catch it before it slips
to hold it steady
long enough to understand
what it’s asking for

not fixed
not solved

just held

I run my thumb over the words
like a pebble in my mind
again and again
until the edges soften and smooth over

the music is where those moments end up

not as answers
but as artifacts
polished and presented
in the museum of my mind

always admired
but never to be touched

proof that something was felt fully
even if it couldn’t be understood

I write because, eventually,
something refuses to leave
until it’s given somewhere else to live