She wasn’t always so fluid, she thinks.
This is a desperate thought.
By desperate, she means she captured it from a large crowd of vying thoughts.
By fluid, she means she fears leaking out of herself.
People do all the time, she thinks, remembering all the puddles.
This fear is one greater than a worry about incontinence, she thinks.
An annotated translation would include this:
I hate dreaming I am somewhere and waking up somewhere else.
Write it out. Write it out.
This is an encouragement. Encouragement is worth repeating.
Writing seems monumental until she considers the weight of a thought.
Thoughts swing from one point of view to another. Sentences keep things in order.
She often has such enormous thoughts, they fall on her chest like stones.
The weight against herself keeps her from knowing she is an I.
I am the she I most want to know and most often avoid.
Writing seems frivolous until she, who is also me, understood the weight of an undisclosed thought.
If I tell you and you understand what I’ve said, better yet, if you feel what I’ve said,
a chunk of weight falls on your shoulders. I am learning to let you carry it as I am willing to carry yours.
Writing is a map.
Lost things tend to turn up in remote places.
Who wants to go there? She asks.
Who would take the time? I answer.
Bring others into your undiscovered world.
They have no way to navigate the exotic regions of your soul. Nor do you.
Nor do I.
The exotic unknown within me is enormous.
It circles and straightens, it bends, dips, it stalls in boxed canyons.
It takes time, she thinks.