write and wrong

some days, the darkness comes out of the woodwork and clubs you in the head with a mallet

some days, the darkness doesn't matter because you have loud music and obnoxiously wonderfully flamboyant instructors to emulate and a room full of equally distracting/ distracted people to keep your mind and body buoyant. and alive

some days, you miss writing so much you can almost feel the words bleeding out of your fingers and the catharsis is more comforting than most of the other bits you try to busy your mind with

some days you're incoherent and sweaty and just content with still screens and whirring fans and tuesdays.

and today i just want to make a solidly empty promise to myself. to update this space a little bit more, to jot down my last year of being in my 20s (shut. up). for posterity. for future me. and all that jazz.