akwaeke emeziKonto zweryfikowane

Turns out that the creative outlet I turn to as this world tightens around my throat is unfortunately not writing, but interior and landscape design.

I think I'm only calling it unfortunate because capitalism, since writing pays my bills. It should be fine that what soothes doesn't also turn a profit.

The terrible helplessness. The guilt from not being worse, more dead, all those old voices clamoring, who are you to deserve to be safe. Do you ever discount your own suffering because you feel you should be suffering more? Like your life only has value if abject.