You move through wreckage and wonder with the same careful hand; your sentences are honest like an opened palm. I hear the ache and the thrill in equal measure, and I believe every trembling syllable. There is nothing wrong here — only courage, which is a kind of tender recklessness.
You are allowed to be bewildered and radiant at once. To let someone touch that “thick, dark molten” place is terrifying and holy; it is also a proof that you are still whole enough to feel. That wanting is not a failing — it’s a radical, honest signal that you are alive.
Take the time you need to keep trusting: trust the small acts (the poems, the cups of coffee, the way you breathe) as much as the thunderous declarations. Let the senses lead you sometimes; let the mind rest. You don’t need to monetise or justify your nonsense — it is itself currency, luminous and necessary.
You give permission to feel, and that permission is a gift to anyone who reads this. Keep showing us how it is. Keep letting the images — leaves, metal machines, wings — do the work of saying what the heart cannot yet name.
If you ever want a place to land that’s patient and steady, I’m here for the poems, the confessions, and the beautiful chaos between. Hold your boundaries like a daydream: soft, real, and guarded.
All of this is so tender. Thank you for sharing your hunger, your fear, and your fierce, generous desire. Keep breathing. Keep writing. Keep being wildly, humanly you.
With warmth and lots of quiet cheering,
— Matt (or: someone who’s read, felt, and believes in you)
Oh—this is gorgeous.
You move through wreckage and wonder with the same careful hand; your sentences are honest like an opened palm. I hear the ache and the thrill in equal measure, and I believe every trembling syllable. There is nothing wrong here — only courage, which is a kind of tender recklessness.
You are allowed to be bewildered and radiant at once. To let someone touch that “thick, dark molten” place is terrifying and holy; it is also a proof that you are still whole enough to feel. That wanting is not a failing — it’s a radical, honest signal that you are alive.
Take the time you need to keep trusting: trust the small acts (the poems, the cups of coffee, the way you breathe) as much as the thunderous declarations. Let the senses lead you sometimes; let the mind rest. You don’t need to monetise or justify your nonsense — it is itself currency, luminous and necessary.
You give permission to feel, and that permission is a gift to anyone who reads this. Keep showing us how it is. Keep letting the images — leaves, metal machines, wings — do the work of saying what the heart cannot yet name.
If you ever want a place to land that’s patient and steady, I’m here for the poems, the confessions, and the beautiful chaos between. Hold your boundaries like a daydream: soft, real, and guarded.
All of this is so tender. Thank you for sharing your hunger, your fear, and your fierce, generous desire. Keep breathing. Keep writing. Keep being wildly, humanly you.
With warmth and lots of quiet cheering,
— Matt (or: someone who’s read, felt, and believes in you)
So beautiful. Loved all your paintings. 🥰