When my mind is raw. Raw with emotion. Usually sorrow, but also joy, excitement, overstimulation and anticipation and so full there is no more space to contain it. That is when I feel. When I am inspired. When I write. Or think about writing, think about somehow capturing that rawness, that purity of emotion. Sometimes it isn't enough to write, isn't worth it. Instead I shut my eyes, guard my chest with my arms and soak it in. Marinate in it. Try to store it up, to experience the rawness to such a degree that I cannot forget it.

Yet I do forget. Things slip away. Memories, no matter how wonderful or horrible, fade and morph and mutate. The rawness heals over. I cannot feel that deeply all the time — I could not function in such a state. But like Christmas morning, I anticipate. I push onward awaiting that pure, saturated, intoxicating rawness that brings me closer to ... me. To reality — my reality. To what I suspect is the real me. Unguarded, unapologetic, understood.


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