(no subject)
I have so much to write yet nothing at all. My fingertips are dry. "You'll never write a good entry again", they say. "You're not really a writer", they whisper. The muse sits in the back and rolls her eyes. "You always say that." The chatter continues. The bubbles float around me as I sink deeper into the ocean, forgetting that I can't breathe under water and deciding I'm going to anyway. My hair floats above me. The muse whispers "turns out you just have to write about how you can't write to start writing."
The core of myself is opening up. The real me. The real person I am, full of the fragmented pieces that I had separated to make myself more palatable, to control myself because it's easier to control parts than to control a full, fragmented person with skeletons and demons.
My authenticity swells with the waves and blooms in the mangroves and yells out "I'm here, I'm here. I can finally breathe". My authenticity touches the sand with my toes, pushes up, and swims towards sunlight. I wade out of the sea. Naked. Beads of seawater drip down the nape of my neck and cling to the skin on my chest. Hair, crunchy. Lips tasting of salt. And cilantro, and lime. The mango sits on the palm of my hand as I walk out of the surf. The birds sing and the sun shines. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.