In that space between my heart and diaphragm was the fear I always feel before writing, when my soul is poised to leap alone.

Meet my infamous Black Journal #6.
It is so full of life and whatnot that it can’t close anymore, I am so proud.

I cannot wait for the day when my life is my own. When every piece is anchored safely, because it’s really hard running after all of these helium balloons floating away without me. Things will be solid in the future but that day feels so distant.

Is writing about writer’s block still writing?
Slowly stopped noting the time and date because I’m slowly not giving a fuck