Write a book.
Write something. Anything. Write what your heart is telling you to express. Give form to the tears that stream down your face and the sadness that you hold in your belly. Write so that someone (a stranger, a friend, you in a future instance) will find refuge in your words. Write so that tangles of thoughts slowly become unraveled and spun neatly into spools. Write because it is your favorite way of understanding chaos. Write because it is catharsis. Write because.
I wouldn’t call myself a writer. I am a writer. I am someone who writes. I am someone who expresses theirselves best through words. And dance. But I wouldn’t call myself a dancer. I am a dancer. I am someone who dances. I am someone who expresses. I am someone. I am.
Finding your flow is like settling comfortably in a room you’ve been in before but feels different and foreign each and every time. You shift in the seat so many times you’ve lost count. You can’t seem to find the most comfortable position. Your breathing becomes haggard from the frustration of not being able to settle. You take deep breaths and expel them furiously through your nostrils. You stand up and walk around, pacing across the room. You find another seat to try out and repeat the same process before. Then at a certain point, you find yourself lying on the rug of the floor and staring up at the ceiling in a sweet surrender. Hours pass as you daydream, lost in billowy formless imaginative bliss.
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