Some days I can write like the world is on fire and the ink just pours from me and other days I hate it, the words won't flow and the ink is clogging my vines like oil sludge, and I hate the way I feel and I hate the way the world feels and I want to drown myself in my own misery.
I want a giant hand to reach up and pull me under the ground until I become one with the dark soil and I disappear forever. Maybe one day that will happen, who knows. However, if you are reading this posthumously, know that I love you and I think that you are a fantastic human, you got this.
If I am reading this at a later time in my life. What's shakin boo? Are we doing okay? Is this blog still a thing?
Just know it's all a cycle, an ebb and flow.
I love you.
Phyre
❤️
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