today I’m writing a thing. I’m asking noone, today, I’m writing, my thing, noone allowed me – today, I asked zero people’s permission to write – and capitalism also didn’t bite – just me myself and I.
remember childhood. Heroines who wrote on stolen paper. Little girls who read books on hiding. My own sneaky ways reading books when I should’ve been in piano practice.
writing journals that would then get stolen or lost. How luxurious is this. I am here. No Margaret Atwood visions interfere with my holding of this pen. I’m writing in purple although that’s “not serious”, I’m writing longhand though it’s less “productive”, producing nothing, earning nothing, except my own, my own precariously held
peace of mind.