To write or not to write?
That is sometimes the question. The quivering heart that hides behind veils and veils of insecurity about our words. Words are this thing. This thing that forms from the inside of us, taking the shape of us. We breathe into them our very essence. The things that make our skies big and blue and make our world go round.
We each have them, words. For some, they sit in the belly, always coming from that place that has lived through different lifetimes. Oldness stapled to each syllable. For others, words sit just on the surface of the skin, always there, ready waiting, painted in rainbow colours.
There is room for each of us. In these words. In this space. In this world, there is room enough for each of us to occupy in all our unique ways of being.
I can stand next to you and still be beautiful. And you can stand next to me and still be beautiful.
Inside of us are words that can heal, love and pull things close. Inside of words are lives and worlds that are our own. Framed in letters that wrap around the thing we desperately try to say: “love me please.”