With a sense of loss verging on grief she sunk her resolve past some critical threshold of commitment to the decision never to publicly share the piece she was writing, even when it reached some further state of completion. With this progression of her decisioning came an unspecific dread with the ferocity of an avalanche and protractedness of a glacier. She felt further locked in to a mode of being that was more like nonbeing. All the horrors of life became more real and invasive. The pinprick of hope receded even further towards the horizon until the the two merged. Creating was not enough. It had to be witnessed, or at least placed into a realm where being witnessed was a vague possibility. Shame sung its irresistible song of despair and she danced her familiar automatic sad slow dance with palms always skywards. Nobody knew what she was doing, much less feeling or thinking, and at last she had found some window onto the world.
Piquant bursts of prose with poetic brevity. Some poems. Occasional wisdom and maybe knowledge. Artifying existence. Finding the music. Make yourself at home.