inability to save or do things regularly

I like writing me. I’m seeing her now

captured in the words letters on the

screen. She intuitively knows what

is real, what matters and what will

last- in the rhythm of the sentences

that never really end. I especially

like it when she is at her best,

It is when she doesn’t care

what others think. If others see

Its when she writes it just for me.

Just for the sake of that writing

is such a beautiful thing.

Such a valuable thing. It’s like

she’s wrapping gifts for people

she doesn’t know yet. For people,

she doesn’t even know if she’ll

meet. for people who will  get

to see the one thing she is so good

at being in one place and everywhere

else.

The truth will set you free they say

I guess that means. That it doesn’t

trap you in facts. But allows for

everything true to be. to be more

To exist more. To be more true

again and again and again.

I think she does that. And I’m

just sitting here, allowing

her to tell me stories that help me

see- the same thing anew,

Anew, anew, every day.

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