The writing is coming anyway. My body is spent, energy rationed between meals and the two hours of free time per day, but the words aren’t stopping. They leak themselves onto my journal pages in blackest ink and are taking shape of the mountains. If I can write here I can write anywhere. And I will. Let my words be what I need when 3 cups of coffee won’t do it.
What will life after this look like? Doesn’t matter. I can only be where I am and I am here. Tucked into a cabin with seven girls and a hell of a lot of responsibility. Me and my pen find corners and minutes to share and my hands work faster than ever. Hope happens here. And disappointment. An alternate universe of small speech and forever remembering of words that sometimes come too easy.
I’m learning to speak slow while I write fast. Listen more and walk further. The words are coming without coaxing which is good, because everything else needs encouragement and reason. I’ve hardly got reason left but I can only be where I am. The mountains are home now.