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1.2k · Oct 2018
w a l l
Angie Christine Oct 2018

writer’s block
creator’s block
artist’s block

what blocks the creative , artistic flow of a poet, a writer, a speaker of the truths of the heart and soul of humanity?

if you , my fellow artists, dreamers, poets, writers, soulful people, should discover the answer to the question we all ask , please do share; for I am weary , bewildered and discombobulated; and all the metaphorical, ephemeral, infinitesimal words trapped inside me are scratching and scrambling to come out .

with love and raw honesty from a fellow blocked writer
by Angie Christine on 12 October 2018 at 8:57pm
910 · Oct 2018
h i s h a n d s
Angie Christine Oct 2018
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed.
See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him.  I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.
      As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.
     Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.              
They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.
     His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he.
And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
Written 1/18/18 at 10:29 am
673 · Oct 2018
31 december 2017
Angie Christine Oct 2018
I began the year in a familiar yet increasingly desolate place and am closing it in a new, yet somewhat beautifully familiar place both literally and metaphorically.
The center photo sums up my year in a rather cliché yet accurate manner.
I started the year with the mindset I would rid myself of all negativity.
I ended last year the same.
It all began in my mind.
I had to choose to let go.
I had to accept that  my desire to change had skyrocketed above my desire to remain the same emotionally, mentally, or physically.
I was trapped inside a chrysalis I wish had the strength to break out of 20 years ago.
However, if I had fought it I wouldn’t have crash landed at the feet of all my hopes and dreams completely and utterly incapable of fighting it any longer.
I’ve always performed as the supporting actress of my own life.
I was more hungry for acceptance by my former cast members than I was to satiate my ravenous hunger for (that once dreaded word)
C H A N G E .
In one moment , what began as a dream became a CHOICE followed by an ACTION.
I said, “Yes.”
And just like that, everything changed.
I felt sun on my once withered wings .
I’ve always been a child of the moon.
In that moment, just a moment of sun had me fighting, kicking, and screaming to break free of the bonds which once held me captive to their mental slavery.
I can’t explain this without metaphors and analogies because this year I have experienced LIFE in a way I never have and I don’t have words to describe it.
I had never allowed myself to live free .
Do we know we are free once our bonds are undone?
I didn’t.
I didn’t know until someone told me I was free.
I had struggled beneath the weight of the burdens of the girl I was told I was supposed to be.
Set yourselves and one another free.
I’m so grateful I did.
Written 12/31/17 at 11:54am
602 · Oct 2018
s e c u r i t y
Angie Christine Oct 2018
my security blanket
is the thought
of your kiss
on my forehead
and your breath
on my cheeks
17 October 2018
490 · Oct 2018
s a w d u s t
Angie Christine Oct 2018
-when he began transforming his guest room...for me.

-our first Christmas after he moved me home and created our mantle from my old place.

-all over him after his days of doing carpentry with his Dad this spring.

- his scent I crave each day when he returns to our haven after a day of work.

-all over him again last Saturday as he sanded an antique cabinet for me.

I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust. The scent is etched into my olfactory memories as one so sweet- blood sweat, tears and sawdust.
He puts all of himself into us.
For me and to me, he is love.
And I’ll never tire of the scent of sawdust.
Written 5/29/18
431 · Oct 2018
m e t a m o r p h o s i s
Angie Christine Oct 2018
Nothing ***** about metamorphosis.
Dying inside the cocoon?
That ***** .
Written 4/26/18 at 7:33pm

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