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Autumn, Tasmania


And of course it takes this to get me writing again.


How do I tell him I don’t know how to start again?

How do I start again?

How do I tell him I’m scared of being lost in depths unmanageable again?

How do I tell him I just want to be?


A week later and I find myself taking photos of the sunrise flickering through the curtain of his van. Parked by the ocean, view of the treetops. Adventuring comes easily and we fill our days with fresh food and sandy feet. This comfort and ease of communication scares me. I scramble to invent reasons to not go here, to not be happy in this simplicity but the drama doesn’t stick and I remind myself that that is not me. He has cooked dinner for me three nights in a row now and I must learn that this care is something I deserve. He wraps me in giant hugs, strong shoulders, squeezes my breath out, and I must remember that this comfort is something I deserve. My walls are still up. They’ve been holding strong for well over a year now and I can feel the safety and the resistance they create. He sees it, I think, but one must be wary in pushing against giant walls, for what if they fall, for what if they don’t?


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