(Disclaimer: while seemingly unrelated to leimay's rehearsal process, I felt this post belonged here, next to all the others)

There’s something so

tragically selfish

about writing—

To be kept away from the


of day to day,

Content with the isolation

needed to draw out what

lies beneath.


How arrogant

of one to think that

solitude could lead to

greatness!  That the things which need to be shared

could come devoid of

another’s perspective.


I learned to

mistrust words—

or rather their importance— for

I had seen how


so elegantly constructed,

brimming with such honest intention,

could shatter

when placed in the context of the

vast multitude of beings and experiences.


Or worse—

They didn’t.

They managed to create

a façade

that inspired the creation of new

vocabulary to support its

delicate structure;


Words of identification,

Parallel words,

Words that bind

the smaller masses to the whole,

Frenzied words,

Words of desire,

Words that tower high above

those that created them;

A city of language!

In which not a single breath can be found.


I prefer to express myself

in simpler ways.

My feet on the ground,

my body next to yours,

the moments that arise when

I’m present, and I

come into contact with another, and I

find myself giving something I

didn’t plan to put forth.


Most often when there is something

we desperately want to say, the

importance of language disappears

as soon as it is uttered, leaving me

to wonder if it is simply the act of

addressing somebody directly that

contains the meaning we

seek to convey.


And yet—

there are moments when I

find myself


floating miles above the

things that ground me

and just below

is a world that is known and still unseen.

And I don’t know how

to share it with you.

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