It all began with a journal. Or two journals, to be more exact. It all starts with minimalism.
I love the idea of minimalism and letting go of the things you don’t use, but sometimes it doesn’t jive with making things. My sad journals.
These journals hurt. They feel like a dull hollowness. They suck the air out of the room around them. They reek of him, they reek of wanting power over. They reek of insecurity.
They were cut up. Words cut to slivers soften.
It’s okay to start again as many times as you need to to get it right. It’s okay to not visit who you used to be for coffee anymore.
(this sat in drafts for at least 6 months, GULP. Took the plunge)
