Taking Back Control

We are fastened to one another by fraying knots.

Mottled steel. I want to rid myself of you.

Shrug you off like a winter jacket on the first day of spring.

Breathe relief into the heavy air as I feel you slide away from me.

I don’t want you to be happy, I don’t think you deserve it.

But is there even a you to begin with? Are you sentient? Are you real?

Because you are not true. I know that much.

I know that you can make me feel unworthy and small.

I know that you have the power to change me.

Shift and model me into whatever your will suggests.

I know that this control you have over me is no one’s fault but my own.

I know that life would be much cleaner, much healthier without you.

You whisper insecurities in my ear then shout them to the world.

You tell me it’s not enough. Nothing I do is enough.

I reach for happiness and feel my fingertips graze atop joy’s ruffled edges. Just as quickly gone. You’ve pulled me away, back to reality. Back to misanthropy. You stunt my happiness in ways you’ll never care to know.

You will take and take and take until I am a husk.

An empty shell awaiting orders from its owner.

Because eventually you will own me. My person, my spirit, my life.

You are a festering sore upon my back. You cultivate deeper into me with each passing day. Each passing hour.

This is why I must bid you farewell dear ego. For it is no one’s fault but my own. These deep seated cries of sorrow you sow.

I cast you away from my soul, as I have so many times before.

No longer will I allow you to live at the forefront my will.

No longer will I let you inside my common sense or rational thoughts.

I will leave you stranded and wondering what happened.

Alone and desolate.


But how long will it last?


When the Word-Floors Collapse

A pressure that is dainty but daunting wiggles in through my ear disguised as hopes and dreams of a rewarding future.

I wish I could tell you why I am so frightened of it.

I wish I could explain why I am terrified of the words that pour out of me like syrup globs over big round pancakes. The way they fall out of my brain and into sentences and paragraphs and stories.

Because the prospect of them dropping into the meaningless places, the void, frightens me the way the fox frightens the chickadee.

The idea that these floors upon floors of connected words will end up meaning nothing. That the anecdotes are flat and the meanings meaningless leaves a pinprick hole in some subterranean part of me. I can feel it expanding. I can feel it growing.

And the words are plummeting into this black hole now. Lost to the bottomless anxiety of the deepest clefts.

So I put fear around it all.

It sort of encapsulates my person like a blanket tossed upon the shoulders of a nearly drowned woman.

The terror shrouds me.

But I manage to push it down or pull it out or maybe I just banish it away to a nowhere place just long enough to rid the dark self-doubt from my mind.

Then I begin to regurgitate the words once more.

I remind myself that I am not my fear. I am not my insecurities. The words are terrifying as they fall out me, but they are also my liberator.

Glass Surface

Some days my life feels like a vast ocean.

Stretching far across a skyline

That seems unending. Daunting.

Tasks pile up. Unread books

Upon a dusty shelf.

Waiting for someone to pick them up.

Waiting for someone to sort it all out for me.

And somedays it all appears to be too much.

The bulk of obligation buckles my knees.

Wobbles my feet.

I wonder somedays if I can lasso it

Into regulation.

Can I compact the monthly, weekly, daily duties

So they become attainable?

Tie them into a routine?

Neat and tidy.

While floating over this sea of responsibility

Moons passing. Water droplets detach

In skyward propulsion.

And the anxiety melts away,

Fat in a red-hot pan.

Starlight glimmers off the tasks

I once obsessed about.

Now casting perfect shadows, lengthy as the threats

Of incompletion which worried me moments before.

Handsome. Disordered. Ruffled chaos. Beautiful disaray.

Bliss peeking through slats of agitation.

Fence posts of contentment erected amid

Goals for future days.

And it occurs to me that most days,

This life-ocean seems vast and unnerving.

But it also builds dreams upon its glass surface.


If I were inspiration I’d nestle myself into a bed of pebbles. One glowing dark stone among rudimentary grey rock. I’d be a scent of aromatic bloom in a city of skyscrapers. A hint of green haze upon bare branches during the dreary melt of an upcoming spring.

If I were inspiration I would be a kind smile in a sea of indifferent faces. An outgoing act of silliness. A sprig of laughter at the most inopportune time.  Pure and blatant joy showered earthward for no reason other than to spread happiness to the humans below.

If I were inspiration, I would scatter myself discreetly in the places only the interested would notice. A purple flower reaching heavenward flanked by the cold stone of two soaring buildings. A bug on a streetlamp at midnight, casting obscurities upon the sidewalk below.

If I were inspiration, the world and all of its weird magic would be at my fingertips. And I wonder if sometimes it is.


Head Sloths Slowin’ Me Down

The writing stinks today.

Like a musty towel

Left too long

In the machine,

The smell

Sticking to everything

It touches.

Grey fog hugs my brain.

Fondly fondling


Like play things.

Altering and misshaping

Past memories

Taking away all

Semblance of


Head Sloths,

Lazily hang from my

Prefrontal cortex.


In the

Inability to care

About the production

Of new words

Becomes me.

Their giant claws

Tickle soft tissue.

Prod at the fatty

Flesh of my thoughts.

Elbow away


Jabbing the muse

To distant future days.

Removing the possibility

To write well


And the words.

The words


Slip away, to that

Place where

Dark clouds never

Dissipate. Unable to



The words creep out of me

Smelling cheap and decayed.

The writing stinks today.


The You’s of Yesterday and Tomorrow

Once upon a lifetime, you were never tired. Minutes passed by like molasses through a sieve; long lasting and bittersweet.  You didn’t know that one day the easiness, the jovial adventures of youth would flit away like tissue paper pieces caught in a windstorm. Altering and shifting ever so slightly so you wouldn’t detect the change until years later. You didn’t know that life was so delicate. So defining.

You were wet cheeked and waiting for trouble. You had faith. Not confidence, more of a conviction for the unthoughtful standards which surrounded you.

You were beautiful. Fresh faced, energetic—never dog-tired and dragging your body from A to B as you do now. You were filled with lifeblood. You exuded it through tiny pores upon your glistening skin.

You were oh so positive. Dappled envy and the want for material goods had not yet sullied your go-getter attitude. You bled eagerness.

You look back on these days not with bitterness but an unbidden appreciation.

Because despite how able and animated you once were, you decide as you sit and sip coffee this early morning that you wouldn’t trade it back. You quite enjoy the person who writes these words today. You now have the confidence to take this realisation and lay it out, spread it along the various nooks and crannies of your life, let all the past and future you’s see it.

Life is defining, and the actions of the past have prepared you, primed your inner and outer self to be melded and shaped into a future person. Days, years, lifetimes past have initiated the process and it is your job to continue the construction until there is nothing left to construct.

Bad Poetry

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?

The one that will stick to you. Stick to your reader,

Sweet and aromatic like the air of a bakery

Early in the morning.

How many bad poems must bleed

From the fingertips of those who yearn to write romantically?

Those who crave to produce one piece of the verse

Which will evolve into something universal; carried over millennia

Brisk and untouchable on the invisible airstreams of literary fervour.

Ejected thoughts sinking skyward.

How many lines must be toiled over?

Ripped from the mind. Scoured at as though it were a dirty dish

That had been left to scab. Removing the crust. Picking away the bad.

Bad poetry is everywhere.

These pages are filled with it. Brimming and busting at the seams

Unsuccessful imagery.

Flat blows of ornamental language.

Bad poetry is the way we text and speak

The way we move through society. Bad poetry is universal and always.

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one? And who chooses which is which anyways?


Do & Be

I will silence in the room. Perhaps, if I could just quiet the hum of this computer, the click-clack of keys upon this keyboard I could summon the sentences up and out of me. Still the words refuse to ring out in their usual sing song way. I look around the room at a collection of framed family photos, my favourite hardbacks lining a shadowy red pony wall, the light from a floor lamp casting peculiar shapes upon an otherwise dark ceiling.

I see all of these wondrous effects of the everyday and the ideas continue to escape me. They flit past my cognisant mind like campfire crickets escaping mason jar capture. They elude any chance of being taken up. Dodging the ultimate fortune of being turned inside out. Pulled apart for further experimentation. Today they slip away. I could try to ring out a few more words. Push them sloppily together like puzzle pieces which have never been meant to meet. I could sit in this spectral room waiting for the muse to seep in. The offering of water to quench thirsty earth. I could sit here in this hard backed wooden chair, back and brain aching from immobility.

Or, I could move. Stretch. Oil the muscles which have rusted from eons of sitting still. Walk off the dust that currently lines the creative corners of my mind. Do and be.

Sometimes, when the ideas do not come no amount of silence can summon them.

something new

Usually staring at this blank page frustrates me. The white glare bites into my retinas and reminds me that I still have so much to do, so much to learn. So much to write. It prompts me to call to mind everything that I so desperately long for in this life but that right now seems too far away. Like island dots upon a water-logged horizon.

Not this morning though. This morning it feels good to have a blank page in front of me. Invisible eddies of possibility twirl into my brain and out through these fingers. The possibility motivates me. Moves me to find time, write more, seek limbs and jump. Freefall into something untried and terrifying.

This blank screen reminds me that the more I write the easier it becomes to fill up the hollow spaces. To remove the glare that tries to stop me with its distracting radiance. The words feed each other, they gain sustenance with each thought, each idea that unfolds upon this screen.



Now, it seems,

I am indebted to this screen.

There is a time bomb inside

Of me.


Waiting to KA-BLOOOEY!

I am a fiend

For the literary.

Unseen and weary

Unable to glean

What need be

From my brain activity.

Although agreeing

To keep positivity



Trying to seek out

The answers


Then expelling them


To this screen.

How it should be.


It has been a few days since I’ve written. The other responsibilities of life and work have usurped my brain and time was not on my side. It seems to me now, after a break like this, it takes a while to warm up my brain. Like a good stretch sesh before a run, I must work out the kinks of inactivity.

Right now, looking at the glowing white screen simply gives me good feelings. I am here. I am writing. Thoughts flow over this page like brown and orange fallen leaves in autumn. Allowing regrowth. And tomorrow something new.

Thirty Two Years

It’s official! I have lived for thirty two years. I have had thirty two years worth of adventures. Thirty two years of learning and growing. How little time it feels like when placed up against the worldwide scope of things. Yet it simultaneously is lifespans and magnificent. I am a world wrapped up into thirty two years of memory, hope for the future, and a simple beautiful existence. And I am in awe to see what the next thirty two years has in store.

I woke up this morning thinking that I would take the morning off writing. I would laze in the living room sipping coffee and surfing Facebook. I would luxuriate and not worry over the realm of words which long to break free from my brain.  I would revel in the nothingness of the morning. The nothing things.

But as it is, the mind does not work as such. After having written (nearly) every morning for almost two months now it seems that I cannot simply turn it off. The words sneak into my fingers and leak outwards like ink from a wizened pen.

This morning as I tried to relax I discovered that the most comforting thing of all is to allow the sentences to form, the ideas to arrange themselves and then simply freefall down the literary rabbit hole.

Little did I know that these past few months have provided me with the greatest birthday gift of all; a renewed and uninhibited love for creating. What a wonderful gift to give oneself.


Building a Woman

She is unsure.

The warm embrace of

Confidence neglects her

Like a child left

To scream alone

In a forlorn room.

Long stretched shadows

Dance over silver walls

While creaking corners

Remind her of

A separateness

She can’t control.

She is nervous.

Apprehensive to pursue

The Great Adventure


Just outside the swinging door.

Edgy and fretful

Of all

She does not know.

Sullied over stupidity

Endlessly worried about

Looking dumb.

Never knowing

If she


Good enough.


She is curious.

Despite all of these


She yearns to unearth

The well of potential

Which runs

Like spring water

Cool and clear and calming

Just outside her grasp.

Reaching, stretching.

Liquid quenching

A thirsty tongue.

And now,

She is hydrated


In her resolve

She will press onwards.

Outwards in a quest

For knowledge.

For experience.

For skills she

Looks to receive

To be

The maker of

Many things.

For the passion

She aims to release

Upon the world.


After long last,

She is ready.

The Place Behind The Words

I woke up this morning wanting to write warmly to you. I had half of a poem written when I realized that I was just placing words together. There was no truth behind them. No feeling being drug up from the depths of my gut. No passion in that place that exists behind the words.

Because there is such a place. It is a dark hole that is never ending. It is the thing which touches us when reading a beautiful piece of poetry or sticks fervently to the side of our brains long after we’ve fallen into a gripping story.

It is the place of lost worlds and forgotten wonders. It is the reason we crave the written word; why we long to read and write the stories of the mind.

It is a beautiful, terrifying, astounding space. A stretched tunnel with many off-shoots. A cosmic forest. A cavernous fissure upon earth’s surface. It is an infinite thing only because our imaginations are unbounded and limitless. It is as abundant as our confidence in it.

This magical place is the writer’s ambition. It is the reader’s refuge. It is the place where creator and consumer meet. It is the endgame and the inauguration alike.

And it is my advice to you as the reader, as the writer, as the taster of literature and the ejector of words to find this place and vow to live there contentedly each time you delve into the stories and poetry and the words which are meant to be read by wanting minds.




He rests his weary mind. Sleep no longer comes easy to him. Not after the crash. 6 treacherous months of sleepless nights, of sleepwalking days. Of the two an unbroken knot of repetitiveness.  A constant state of sameness. Moonlight is bellowing through the slits of double sided fabric hanging on the windowpane. Ethereal particles of light catch his eyes, reminding him he is alone in this world. He wants to put his brain on pause. Bolt close the thinking parts and shut off his eyes. He wants to turn it all off. A warm tendril of breath. A tepid wisp of air across his lightly gowned chest. Whispering voices. “Hang in there.” “We love you.” “Come back to us.” If only he could. If only he could sleep.


Collecting brain-frizz and releasing it.

Admittedly I am a brain-frizz collector. Days stretch by where I have no desire to learn or grow, to read or even write. These are the times when I sit on my phone frying my thoughts with Facebook nonsense and addictive games with bright colors and flashing lights. If I listen just right I could probably hear the sizzle of each brain cell as my endorphins run rampant from reaching a high score. Like yolk hitting a hot pan.

Sometimes it just is too much. The worries that accompany the everyday, the stress of tomorrow, the constant angst that comes with being a business owner. Sometimes everything stacks up so high that not even a good book can show me sanctuary. Sometimes turning the brain off and mindlessly looking at hilarious memes or carelessly stacking colorful blocks to reach a goal is just what I need to get past the hump I find in front of me. Sometimes I just need a pause.

But look, I can clearly see that the continuation of this practice would be insanely unhealthy. I’m not so naive to think that ostriching this shit is going to make any of my mental or emotional baggage disappear. If anything I am just hoping to stack it up up and away like the little blocks I stack in the phone games. This method is unreasonable at best. At worst it is completely delusional. And lets be honest delusion and I go together like spaghetti and meatballs. Or corn and a husk. Or a lava lamp and the goopy “lava” that is inside of it.

The worst part is now. Right now. This precise moment when I realise that I have to stop hiding away from everything. I must confront my stress. I must challenge my worries about the future. I must put down the phone with the Facebook and the games and the other distractions that make life so easy to forget about and I must go out in the world and live.

So I have roughly three hundred unfinished writing projects on my laptop right now and I suppose this is as good of place as any to get started. The realisation that I cannot live on pause for the rest of my life may be a tough one to take but once I fling myself out of it and get back on track I do not regret it. Because it feels good to try again.

Maybe sometimes we all just need a little pause to appreciate the hard work we put into this life.

Harvesting the Mind

The white of this screen has become pixelated with tiny orange and blue specks throughout it.

I imagine those specks are all of the thoughts and ideas I lose every morning in this time of outward introspection.

I envision the half-thoughts being pulled out ever so slowly.

Tapeworms of the brain. Headed for the glow. If only I could make them stick, I think.

Then at least they will be obvious to everyone else. At least they will be out of me and into the world.

That, however is not how this thing works. This thing that is writing.

Somewhere during the pulling process the thoughts escape my grasp. Slip, slip away.

Hip hip Hooray they cheer because they do not want to be lassoed into screen captivity.

I suspect they end up wherever fleeting daydreams goes to die.

(They probably don’t know that while they applaud themselves valiantly.)

Flecks of thought fragments:

An orange peel shriveled and stiff under the bed post.

A spray of dust particles distorted by sunlight into something entirely changed, a barrier, a wall.

The feel of a friends hug during difficult times.

A dog smile.

Moonlight glistening off rooftop frost.

All lost to the blue and orange specks of color I see upon this screen.

So close but the exact descriptions now lost to me.

Yet imageries sprout like dandelions upon the mind,

And tomorrow’s yield will prove much more fruitful.

At least one must try.

Counting on the Countdown

Does a new year seep in like water over a floor from a leaky faucet? Drowning the old. Cleansing the playing area for a bright future. Or perhaps it rushes us, quick and without hesitation. 11:59pm it is one year and the next moment we find ourselves in a year not yet lived in.

This is why we countdown. We steel our brains for the shock of finding ourselves in future times. But that’s not entirely right is it? Because it feels exactly the same as the year previous had. We walk the same streets. We love the same humans. We say the same things that either get us into trouble or the opposite. And like every New Year’s celebration we talk fervently about how awful the year before was. Pretending it wasn’t exact the same as it had been the year before that and the year before that. Perhaps a few of the nouns change from on year to another but the overall gist, the mindset, usually remains on track.

Or maybe the newness of the year ticks away like a grandfather clock on flowered wallpaper. As soon as the clock strikes midnight the countdown—the real countdown, the big one—begins. Inaudibly we countdown with it because we are programmed to yearn for future days. Each rotation of the Earth brings us closer to enriched lives. Or so we want to believe.

I guess instead of resolutions this year I will make a promise to myself of a different kind. To stop counting down. To stop looking for something else in some near or distant future. To stop running for a finish line that I cannot see because in truth I do not know where it is only that it rests in future days. This year I will learn to appreciate the right now, whatever that may be. To really sit with my kids and listen to their outlandish stories without having a to-do list in the back of my brain. To kiss my husband and simply be there in that moment for as long as we can possibly stand. To write and not have to worry about whether or not the words will ever be published. Just write. To fall in love with the moments that make up this life. The countdown is infinite and none of us have that much time to waste.


The Cold Cuts Clean Through

Snowflakes (too many to count so I will simply pluralize)

Fly through the dim lamplight outside my living room window.

Live ice particles by the millions slice through glacial twilight.

Severing a once healthy semblance of a sunny future.

Restorative measures will be taken

Once the storm has run its course.

Life rages outside this frame. Battles of survival frenzy for stability.

Hostility winning, taking shape.

Sculpting future days in the brain’s wavelengths

Forever flurries disco-hop over my thoughts

Like lethal icicles dropping from a building side façade

Exploding upon impact with the frosted ground.

The sound of wind through a keyhole

Wakes me from this reverie and the

Flakes still fly outside in their icy state.

And I, must brave the storm.


As the literary fish would sing: Just Keep Writing, Just Keep Writing.

A cold coffee sits to the left of me and I am itchy all over. It is perhaps the worst morning in the history of mornings. I used the wrong laundry detergent resulting in a body wide rash upon my peach sensitive skin. The coffee is cold because I’ve spent the better half of the morning trying to pull something, anything, out of my brain and place it methodically onto the bank page. All the while forgetting about the mug of fuel. And the proverbial trash can is brimming with crumpled up attempts at brilliance.

So I’ve decided to scrap brilliance and just talk. Sometimes just talking is all one can really do. It is becoming increasingly more difficult to find the words to write every day. This is disappointing because I was doing pretty well for a while there. It’s been over a month of writing one hundred words a day and I would have liked to report back that this endeavour has upped my productivity in other writing prospects and I am sailing along in my literary goals. Alas this is not the case. There is just always something that seems to stop me from writing. Something physical, some worry, some state of affairs that I literally have no control over but cannot stop stressing about therefore inhibiting me from writing one single word upon paper due to my brain being so full of other non-matters. Brain clutter. Sometimes it’s not brain clutter, sometimes it is legitimate worries and that deepens the block to extraordinary measures.

It is beginning to feel like this blog is just me posting about being stuck. And that isn’t getting me anywhere now is it?

So what now? Where do I go from here? Do I keep writing, or should I say, do I keep complaining about not being able to write? Do I vow to never write about writing again on this thing? Do I transfer my 100 words a day to some other, more viable, writing endeavor? Who determines what is viable?

Maybe I simply need to up the ante to 500 words a day. Or perhaps drop it to 50? Possibly it is the pressure of the word count which is getting to me. I doubt it. I think that is actually the only thing that keeps me posting every day.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the ache. The ache that is buried under all of the daily worries and strife. The ache that mostly always hides in the private crooks of my mind. The ache that murmurs to me about writing when I am least expecting it. The ache doesn’t come to me now, as I sit here drivelling upon this word processing document. Nor does it let itself be heard when I am attempting to rummage up my latest poem or short story. That would actually be helpful. That would be a great driving force to finish the thing. A vote of confidence to put it out there for others to gobble up. The ache comes to me when I am taking a customer’s order at work. It says, this is all fine and dandy for now Lindsay but you can’t keep running from it forever. Soon you must buckle down, nose to the grindstone. The ache comes to me when I am worrying about my kids. It asks what kind of a role model I am trying to be by shoving aside the one thing I’ve always wanted to be because it is simply too difficult to achieve. The ache thumps and thuds against my chest when I am driving and listening to an amazing audio-book and I think, I want to create something like this. I want to write down worlds.

Yet the muse does not follow upon the coattails of these weary thoughts. I am simply left with all of the daily worries and concerns and an emptiness that seems impossible to fill.

Well that’s about all of the lamenting I have time for today so with that I shall bid you adieu. The coffee needs warming and I’ve seriously got to get some lotion on this itchy skin. Then maybe I will be able to jot a few notes down for later use. Wrangle a few words out. Sling a sentence or two.

Because if I am anything, it is resilient.

Write Prompt: Describe Orange.

The colour orange is elation. Tiny blurring wheels forging headlong amidst uncertainty and anguish. Orange is strong willed. Orange is the colour of children’s exploration in back woods; barefoot and teeming with exhilaration. Ethereal flickers of carroty anticipation twirl out from youngsters’ ears, mist from their mouths like warm breath on a mid-January day. Experiencing life for the very first time.

Orange is the colour of first time lovers on a forsaken seaside; perverse with barefaced lust. Orange are the embers within their mounting fervour. Heating the thing from the inside out. Orange is now. Orange is need. Orange is fuel. Orange is the ache one feels when they know that they are meant for something more. It is a lonely bicycle perched haphazardly at a busy city centre. It has so much more in store for us than what first meets the eye.

Orange is unbidden by social construct. Orange is bold. Moving without reservation. Audacious and unflinchable are those who dare to spread this color across their page. It is the sound of a kettle’s heating element sizzling into action. The heat of a warm drink as it slips down your throat. The punch of flavor that you were not expecting. The satisfaction of surprise.

It is a new beginning after a long and travelled road. Youth born wizened from lifetimes past. Orange is the opposite of contentment. It is urge. It is a desire to discover. Orange is cruelly and exquisitely endless. Orange is the forerunner – a pioneer of hope and exploration.

Nails on a chalkboard…that’s the mood this morning.

This morning I wake up and the worries of the world, no, the worries of my world stick to the front of my brain like a sloth to its tree…hmmm, that didn’t quite hit its mark did it? Like my daughter’s candy-glue fingers to the public bowl of toffee treats? Like my daughters candy-glue fingers to the whitened wall? Ah what about, like the tiny bit of tinfoil wrapping to the smarmy butter stick. Ugh, you know what, today is just not my day.

Anyways, the worries consume me. They eat up all of the joy and excitement I am supposed to have at this time of year. It is all of the normal things I worry about. Like business and money and how to possibly forge my way into the writing world when I have absolutely no qualifications to do such a preposterous thing. You know, the usual. It is not as though I am worrying about the extraterrestrial beings that are invading Earth or anything direr than that. I suspect my worries are quite similar (in a roundabout way) to those of anyone who woke up this morning with worries swimming through their brain’s wavelengths (perhaps a bit better?).

A deep sigh releases from my chest. My fingers keep pounding these keys looking for some kind of an answer. Some kind of release from the tightening sensation I’ve felt in my chest since opening my eyes this morning. They search for all of the things I want out of this life but seem to be finding impossible to gather up. The solution must be out there somewhere. In some deep recess of imagination or future thought or intention. It must be floating aimlessly; hoping and praying that sooner or later I will get my shit together just enough to reach out and grasp its concept. Put the pieces together and get the plan formulated to action. However right now, right here as I sit in this Christmas clad living room I cannot fathom even the smallest morsel of what this scheme could possibly be made up of.

At least the clinging anxieties of this morning have ebbed since placing my fingers to this keyboard. They will likely emerge again when I am driving or playing a game of Monopoly with the kids or shovelling snow from the driveway while cursing under my breath about all of the god damned fucking snow, but I suppose that is for later torment.

Maybe the trick of it is to find that release and work it regularly. Write out the worries. Sing out the stress. Draw out the disturbance. Everyone has something and the beautiful part of this strategy is while we are releasing these ill at ease feelings we are practising our craft, perfecting our craft. Carrying us closer to the endgame. Bringing us to where we want to be.