I'm just feeling out into the empty white spaces...leaning forward before I jump, taking into account for the wind before I just plunge headfirst into the nothingness that feels so encompassing.
This white page of potential is so hazardous to my writing...my desire for art...for peace and for peeling back the layers of my soul.
What is good?
What is pure?
What is right to write about?
Purpose...purpose...fell purpose and dread.
Hope in the future, that grace has and will continue to fall upon me...fallen that I am.