Meaningmaking

Creation is an act of survival and my heart is fucking beating, baby. I’m elbows deep in a scene that made the man standing next to me on the train politely cough and look away. Sorry that I rejected gratitude journaling in favor of writing two fictional characters facefucking in my notes app, my heart is beating so very fast. If I don’t write the debauchery the way I want it written, no one will. I’ll survive because I alone have the words to express my thoughts. Every new sentence smells like electricity. My heart is pounding. Don’t you dare doubt it.