I haven’t journaled for two days and I feel the pressure building up, my brain buzzing with unsaid words and unresolved conflicts, I had hard time sleeping this night. It’s getting ready to explode and explosion is exactly what I am trying to avoid, because baby it’s ugly when it happens. So, I am looking for a release in writing, in walking, I need to learn how to meditate, I really do. I need to calm my breathing, to slow my pulse to get back to the state when I hear the birds again, where the bird song is louder than the hum in my head.

I am binging on the books now, both knowledge and stories, also poetry, audio and text, buying, lending at the library, queuing others up in my ever growing next-to-read list. I’m not sure this is healthy, but I am so hungry and desperate now – every bit of knowledge looks good. Is hunger for books connected to loneliness?

I like dwelling at the margins. Margins are where change happens, where new things emerge, new language, where shimmering is. Margins is the only space in a book where nothing is written and everything is possible. Mainstream is boring in comparison. The problem with the margins is that when you stay too long you become, well, marginalized. And marginalisation is lived well better in community than alone. So, the problem is, again, not marginalisation, but loneliness. The secret ingredient I am looking for is a community and sense of belonging at the very margins of the story.