grounds

There is nothing more I dream of than writing and reading, in solitude and in company with others, on dewy lawns and meadowlands, against shady trees and on wooden porches in the countryside.  And there is nothing more that I'd like than to talk about the weight of my chest and how it is not subdued until I put a pen to paper, or more presently, my fingers to a keypad. 

A lot of my womanhood has been withholding (information, feeling, self). 

I want to write in this way:  to write as if I mean to be seen, to tell the stories that I  have once laid at your feet to listen. To write so I'm not absorbed, or objectified, or assuming. To  write as if  avoidance hasn't riddled my existence. 

Does anybody else feel the ache in their bones and in their head when they feel tired? And that  feeling of your  tongue against the roof of your mouth, dense and restrained, when you know sleep is still missing from your body?  Was the hurt that bad? Is your belief in humanity that faint? What of your iman? Why is this important? What makes you special? Or this thing special? Because of you? Because of your identity? Because of what you read?