they say you tend to create art in times of pain,
times of shame,
when you flick the light switch and forget the bulb has been dead and you can't reach high enough to change it.
when you call the one who runs laps around your mind, and those empty dial tones feel like the steady waiting in your life, wondering who, if anyone, will pick up the phone.
when you hold the pen up to the paper and forget the words to the emotions oozing out of your being, and paper was your last resort, in hopes someone would listen.
these moments tend to become reaccuring, repetitive, circulating though blood and marrow in my body, becoming a force made to stop time,
hoping I'll look back and understand why every puzzle piece is shaped the way it is, and I'll be the one picking up the phone