becoming
meet me in the in-between
thinking in ~textures: 06 // + a little life update at the end :)
meet me in the in-between
where light spills
slow and golden
like dawn melting
into ancient waters.
gently undo me,
rippling my lines
until i dissolve
to better learn
your shape.
reveal me,
unhurried,
with hands that flow
where i soften.
i love you in echoes.
i want to know
what of you
already lives
inside me.
—becoming
Hi there. Are you having a nice day so far? How did this feel for you? I’m very curious whether my associations of ~texture are purely a personal experience, or if they translate.
This kinda short-form, half-thoughts format of writing (see: poetry? ) isn’t what I usually lean towards. I don’t feel particularly adept at it, but it’s been fun to experiment with cos I enjoy the image collection part. Does it add something to the ~texture art snack intention, or meh?
Also, it takes considerably less time to piece together than my more consuming prose, which just means I’m dipping my toe into Substack more often.
Speaking of—I’ve set myself a little challenge of writing for 15 mins a day non-negotiable throughout the month of June.
Fifteen mins might sound like sweet fuck all to you, and that’s exactly the point, Margaret. If you tell me one hour a day, guaranteed there are days where that will feel like a mammoth effort and I will probably find a Very Good Reason for not possibly being able to do so. Fifteen mins, however, sounds so achievable that there really is no excuse to not get it done. And if magic aligns and I drop into a flow, 15 mins becomes a hour (or three) before I even register I’ve stopped fighting myself.
And therein lies the scheme.
The hardest part for me is actually sitting down to start something. Blank pages are terrifying. My brain instantly turns into a vacuous space devoid of experience and imagination, with zero record of anything I might have once formed an opinion on or have to say.
A similar thing happens when I want to work on ideas for my novels, except in that case my brain becomes a shellshocked, barren wasteland, the aftermath of an implosion caused by too many unanswered questions and miscellaneous facts careening into each other until everything collapses into dust and all that’s left is an occasional tumbleweed. I can’t build an entire world from a tumbleweed, Geraldine.
That’s why it’s 15 mins. Because my project is incomprehensibly overwhelming and I don’t know if I can do it or if I’ll be any good at it and it is melting my brain to know where to begin. But I fucking LOVE to write, once I’m in it. And I can at least start by making a commitment to show up every day, stare it in the face, and get used to being uncomfortable. Hopefully, little by little, I can piece this thing into creation.
On days where it’s just not happening, though—or where I am lit up with Something Else that Must Be Expressed, at least I’ve got Substack.
Until next time. Stay sexy.
loved the poem and the imagery. textures and shadows can be so inviting and mesmerizing and the way you captured it is so good.
Lovely words, lovely images ✨