I used to draw. Not with any idea that I was great at doing so, not wanting, willing anything from others, just creating.
I wrote, stories and poems.
They are dark and disturbing now for me to read, indulging a feeling of doors being shut in your face and things that could never happen. ever.
(and some funny ones, about anger and sex mixed together at an ex)
Now, I knit. I knit for myself, I try out thing, I zone out, I fade away.
Try to absorb energy for my next day at work.
Next week I will write again, and draw.
Just to make up a pattern (I’m planning on a sweater, designing some motifs myself)
or else, the black stockinett will kill me, slowly, with each stich…
