I wonder what I’d write without considering who’s looking.
My paper journal and a void. No hustle culture or keyword rankings.
Suppose each follower didn’t make me afraid for my safety, for my little family.
Bound to warn of monsters, yet stressing over imperfect words til they slip away nowhere.
And when I do manage to cling to them? Water the mind, wait for words to ripen.
Still, a looming threat of the wrong one discovering. Checking dark corners for violent ghosts hovering.
Would I write more or less? Would it relieve more of my stress?
Am I doing it wrong? Forgive me.
Is it writing for myself, or all, that’s healing?