Photo of directions

I would like to write letters to no one.

Sometimes (still) I wonder why my writing changes so much and so often.

Good thing I haven’t stopped writing over the years.

Montage of sounds, soundtracks to my free thoughts.

Who are these words for? Can one fall in love with words?

Or is it the rest that matters?

The person who is writing now has never felt love.

Or has done so in small fragmented intensities/ in a different way.

Photo of \directions/

I wonder, what is this compulsive behaviour?

Control on one side and control on the other.

It’s verb and noun.

If only you could get inside my head. You’re already doing it.

To whom are these words addressed? To “me” who doesn’t want to come out?

I could release them from me.

Set them free to travel, to die, to be forgotten, rather than anchored in my memory.

To whom is this text addressed? To me, which is intended as an imaginary life?