I never post my personal writing, but I’ve found it to be incredibly cathartic lately and over time plan to share more. The last few years I’ve grown in more than just heel height. Bear with me.
How do things become twisted I ask?
Thoughts. Nerves. Ideas. Words. Hearts.
All I can imagine is that twisted things become because they were never perfectly smooth.
Smooth is perfection and perfection is fake.
Maybe twisted is real and tangled is reality. And to be smooth is actually to be fake – unreal.
In that case I’ll take twisted any day. Unless, of course, it’s the heart. And in that case I choose to never let anyone touch again.