Last day of my work week. I feel deplete. My social batteries are so low. I’d want to recharge but I can’t do it yet due to things out of my control. I suck in more air. Inhale. Exhale. I feel it is not enough to exhale. Perhaps, I should bleed as well. Let the sharp sting wash away the shapeless face of my anxieties. Perhaps, I should stay out longer. Let my ears roam and listen to the trivial things strangers say to each other. Perhaps, I should write. Because writing is also a form of exhaling. Putting out dormant wisps of unannounced passion and misery. I should write, because writing is a form of eavesdropping to the ramblings of a disconnected me. I should write, because writing is also a form of bleeding. The pain shoots out into my core, knocking off all the pile of routine I’ve carelessly tucked inside my head as if that’s all I am: a doer (when really, I am also a happening).
Yep, I should definitely write.