Every Time I Sit

I feel like I am unfurling
it is the only image I feel I have put to paper recently
this idea of
unwrapping
or
undo-ing
in some way.
Like the living of my life is somehow an act of bundling and building up
and the only way to become the length of myself again
is to sit and spill it all, in this way.
It’s funny to think that if someone took the time to read back until 2014,
they might see my evolution.
See the way I shifted from the outside description to the internal reflection,
but I also think,

maybe

only I can see it that way.

Remember where I was and who I was when I wrote about the dreamy coffee shop barista in Austin in 2015,
and the hole inside me that started in August of 2013,
and leaving the house at 9 pm and feeling my step so
lightly
that I knew knew knew things were going up.

I don’t think I’ll ever journal.
And it’s nothing personal,
against the act of journaling.
It’s just that I have this. Right here.
A different kind of narcissist.
My own little private/public echo chamber.

Hello, hello, hello.

2/6/2020