My mother tells me that my blog has lost some of its truth. That I know people are reading. That I need to write for myself. This is what I know.
I think I live in fear.
I fear, I live in fear.
I live in spite of myself, I try and do what I would do if I was fearless.
But I am not.
I'm raked with fear. With insecurity. With what ifs and back thens.
I hold on to the years. The years past. The space between what I loved. What I miss. What has happened.
Getting sick, people moving, breaking up, graduations, death.
All of these pillars, I hoard them.
I do not let go.
Of who I loved, and of what I miss.
Everything into the catalogue- everything under my skin. Everything in Haiti.
Everything there is to do, everything I don't know.
It's too much.
It's always, too much.
There is freedom in Christ,
But where?
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