When there is little to say, there is much brewing. When I am able to articulate the beautiful calamity under my ribs, is often when it's already passed and processed, sorted and transformed. It just moves on. I, move on. Quickly. Because I stayed there deeply. The relationship between the feeling(s) and the sharing, are like two ships passing in the middle of the night. And sometimes what i say and do feels dishonest, but only for this reason, I can't help that my head and heart play catch up. Writing is not therapeutic for me in the muddle. It's sometimes too thick to move, it's presence to heavy for choice. So I stay and ruminate and quarrel, and give and take and give, and stay some more. And then just like that, all rather quickly, it's gone. Another season hovers just above my once weary slumber. It's eager for me to wake, to say something profound, but it doesn't dare, it knows I've been working, digging and brewing. This new found gold, it's mine to illuminate, and I know just how to share it. Only then can I reach for my paper and pen.