What do you do when both hands are full?
Lately I’ve been looking back at how long it took me to get here, and the words I’ve had to write and rewrite to come into the comfort of saying.
What does it mean to be able to say what I say now?
What does it mean to be able to do what I do now?
To some I’m at the beginning of a journey.
To others I’m at the end of another.
I have been struggling with the need to explain.
There have been many moments lately where in a conversation with a new friend (and lately the new friends keep coming!) I’ve felt a growing sense of familiarity and relief: oh, there is understanding, a kind of comfort. The energy I find in these moments is brand new, unprecedented. Excitement like a sunflower finding itself in a field of heads all looking for the same thing, all nodding to some quiet love whisper.
It reminds me of a lonely and struggling her over the last 6 years and I cover her with this relief. She will find out eventually how much more she is capable of; I tell myself this.
I would like people to see me in a good way. In other words, I would like people to see me as right in the middle of my journey. How wonderful and arduous it is to be here.
I am thinking of new ways to love old things, old ways to love new things. I am thinking in a good way of myself, after having spent so many years thinking otherwise.
How do I explain this to someone who I meet for the first time? Do I have to? Is it okay that the old hurts in me aren’t so visible anymore? Do I have to air them to prove that it wasn’t this easy?
How have I come to where I can discard that terrible, paralyzing fear of the ways other people look at me and think myself into more-than-fear?
This present is as new for me as it is for you, only for me it is more frequent, and weighed with more responsibility, I think this to myself.
It is not effortless, it has just become more evidently worth it.
這些字是一種與時間舖的道路。There are those who follow me into this language, and cross into 這少了一些陪伴的語言，最後in the unsaid, 只有 自己。
How blessed I am by the stubborn girl who never stopped writing to herself over the last decade, how beloved are those words that don’t need to be read by anyone else. How she wove herself a castle, then a ladder and then let herself out into a world she is still reweaving.
最近很多感慨，也很多想念。思念的形狀是這既熟悉又陌生的字。Should we call her the poet? Should we call her a language translating in the Chinese of my head?
Should we call her a kind of memory?
然而，然而，然而 －and yet, and yet, and yet…
我當個然而吧。A “yet” with an unsaid but ever-present before.