Running out of stories

Most times, I write my own meaning. Turn feelings into thoughts into words into art. Document how I move, to know that I am. I don’t know how else to make sense of me and I don’t know how else to carry the weight of life. I write in my head and I write on paper and I write in my dreams; as long as I narrate my life, I am safe. But some times, I run out of stories to tell myself. Some times I tumble down where even my stories cannot protect me; some times I feel as if I will stop existing – but I won’t.

Without my words, I ache. The world feels ugly and raw. But some times, with my every nerve, all that I am – I just feel.

And, live, until I can write again,

Why bother?
“Because I breathe.”

– Bernard Malamud

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2 thoughts on “Running out of stories

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