Write it yourself, I say. Write it yourself like you write it into being with every single facet and fibre of it.
Write it like you know you are writing it.
A shape, form, emerges in front of your eyes,
your fingers are not still now, cannot be still
for they are at the same time describing and creating what you see with your own eyes.
They move, in constant motion because you are in constant motion, and you want it to be clear.
You are not running from it, but it is not easy.
It feels - it pulls at you rather strongly rather like this is the thing that is not very patient anymore not feeling like it makes sense to wait everything out - the thing that sent flashes of bliss into your fingers
in the first place, the thing that makes your very own chest sting and pound hard in turns, like a ship in the most childish of storms.
You do not dare to breath out fully, and when you do it sinks down right into your stomach and there feels
so much more profound and physical.
It stretches out into your hands and feet, your fingertips.
You do not look at your words because you are the one who’s already seen them before they came into being. You are not quite
daring to free the full power, the
spell of the word that lay under this thick layer, but you feel it fully, feel that already the word is out, uncovered, hovering - getting to know you better, getting to know your condition,
the multiple points of connection already apt and willing,
and the ones that still push - push away.
There is time.
There is time for sure. But the thing is as sentient as you are.