A note (on writer's block):
I feel as though I'm losing my inspiration and it terrifies me. The harder I work at improving my writing, the more it feels like I'm gripping the neck of creativity, unsatisfied with whatever it coughs up. I want a poem to surprise me again when I  feel the sting of pines (my favorite smell) or the dense air before rain when it feels like the atmosphere is holding its breath.
Instead, I grow to hate my writing. It infuriates me, but I cannot stop.
I chronicle to share the weight of everything.
When someone else can read your life back to you on paper, it makes it less meaningful, less real.
I live in the world I create for myself.