Me. The pen. The humbling acceptance of the blank page. The most performative thing about writing with pen/pencil and paper are the ink smudges caught inside the deepening lines of your hand, the growing callous inside your middle finger.
I am not mellowing. I was told I would. I would grow more conservative, I would forgive and forget. Or that if I did not do as it was decreed- soften, bend more here and there, become more quiet- I would be bitter. And I believed them. Don't let the bitter get me. Surely it … Continue reading I am not mellowing