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I’m not frightened of turning the page. I’m frightened of the blank page. I never used to fear what my thoughts would look like on paper. I’ve avoided it lately. I think the only way to get past this is, most obviously, to write anyways.

Maybe I don’t need to figure out where the fear came from, or why. Maybe I just need to get past it. Maybe other writers go through it.

I miss my parents more lately. I wish that every transition didn’t cut my insides up and stir the movement forward. Wish the absence didn’t feel so gaping right now. Sometimes though, and lately, I am overflowing with hopefulness and change and wonder and happiness for life. Sometimes I’m just being and it’s splendid.

But then I have these nightmares, where all I want to do is grab the face that fills my mind, a haunting vignette. You’re red you’re red you’re red. A red blotchy, blur and short woman in my mind, staring blankly at me. God when will it ever make sense? Did you always want to be this way?

Your face in these dreams drills and drills at the holes you’ve already left in me. I feel worn out, dried up and dismal afterwards and sometimes it takes so much out of me to keep going.

And I do. And these periods become fewer and fewer, shorter and shorter. They are there but so much more is here too, and I have to keep trying.

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