October 3, 2011

Always full of small fears. Speak of picking up again, one hand gathering up the small pieces of myself, patchworked cloths into a long skirt- picking it up and moving myself, and it, to a new room. A new place. Somewhere I cannot be seen, but speak to myself- and everyone, faceless and voiceless. I don’t know why.

Full of small fears, and these are words I keep to myself, must turn to myself as I put them out. I need to learn where public is and where private. What to say, only to myself. And then there is appropriate  and there is afraid and I am not sure where the lines- cross

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