2, 3, 4

My friend encouraged me to get out of a writing rut by suggesting that I do the following exercise: Take a pen and pad of paper, set a timer, and don’t stop writing until the timer rings. Write about anything, even “I don’t know what to write.” It encourages subconscious thoughts to rise to the surface, and can provide inspiration. At the very least, it forces you to write.
I found it therapeutic, meditative. I’ve always been taught that meditation is about letting thoughts flow without halting them, acknowledging them as they pass by. This exercise felt like watching thoughts float along, picking a few at random and smoothing them onto paper.
Do it. Try it, see what happens. Here’s what happened for me.

Take a pen and, for two minutes, don’t lift it from the paper.
I don’t want to miss him anymore.
I don’t want drama anymore,
I don’t want other people, men, to be angry because
I choose to put my emotions first for once. I’m tired of
having to explain myself, to soothe, to coddle.
I want a partner, a friend,
someone who I can support and who supports me,
but who will not fall over, collapse without my presence.
I want a friend, a true friend.

Three minutes this time.
What if I ran away and lived on a beach?
I could have a hammock, get a puppy, play all day.
I’d be so bored.
I miss feeling protected. I miss feeling small and safe.
Is that anti-feminist of me?
I wonder if I’ve ever truly felt safe, or if my mind
was settling for what I had in the moment.
My mom doesn’t trust tall people, but I do.
They don’t see me down here, but they can if they want to.
Tread lightly.
My sign, Capricorn, the goat-fish. Between land and sea, happiest on the sand.
Grounded on one side, rolling waves on the other.
And perhaps my Aquarius moon sign pulls my tide more strongly than most.
I wonder if I’ll find someone willing to sit with me,
while we listen to the waves.
Hold my hand, sit with me in silence.

Four minutes this time.
I’ve been thinking about warm sweaters and chilly mornings lately.
Where a cup of hot tea is one of life’s greatest pleasures.
Leggings, warm socks, cuddles in the morning.
Forehead kisses, and holding someone,
gently pushing hair off his forehead. This faceless someone.
Wrapping myself in a blanket and watching a movie,
laughing and walking close because a cold breeze rolled in.
Running inside a coffee shop, eyes bright and cheeks pink from the chill.
I love the summer, but the autumn makes my soul sing.
I smile more. I write more. I paint more.
Creativity shouldn’t be attached to seasons, or maybe it’s the
seasons that inspire emotion and make me burst.
So I’m craving sweaters, and a big hand holding mine,
pulling me in close to keep me warm.

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