I feel it in my stomach— That desire to create, to move to the tunes, the tones, the vibration in my ears, my bones. I feel uncomfortable.

Why do you work against me? How can I go your way? I’m here, Lord, I’m praying. So why do I feel like crying?

I want to move.

So please, let me.

You keep holding me—not to throw me toward heaven, but to grow the potential.
Why?

I can feel it moving toward my throat, it’s close to unbearable. It tickles, it hurts, it numbs, it paralyzes. That stupid snake is at it again.

And I move.

I dance alone, like an idiot, alone in my bedroom, the living room, the bathroom.

And I spin, keep spinning.
I feel so dumb.

I feel nauseated.
The room spins, my head spins.

Is this what you want?
This is what you want.

I’m taking off my clothes; I want to be nude, totally naked—the fire is burning.
I keep some on, to keep my proudness away; I’m a prude, no doubt.
I’m so pretty, gorgeous even.
Yet so ugly—nothing more than an evolved monkey.
Nothing pretty about these ten fingers, ten toes.
Hair in random places.
I wish I could have these moments for life.

I feel nauseous.
I feel alive.

Thank you, is all.

The feeling in my stomach persists.
Is it meant to stay forever? Give me two more weeks with it and then let. it. go.

I want to soar, to fly. Maybe I can let it go right. now.

A bit of rest. No pressure, no stress.

What is happening is happening anyway.

I already miss it.

Note from the Author

This piece was written in a moment of raw urgency, a feverish need to capture what was happening inside me before it slipped away. It’s an exploration of the tension between creativity and resistance, movement and paralysis, vulnerability and pride.

I hesitated to share it for a long time—not because I was ashamed of it, but because I didn’t want people to think I was still there. There’s a strange instinct to only show up when we’re shining, when we’ve figured things out. Maybe it’s conditioning, maybe it’s self-preservation. But I’m learning that sharing the full spectrum—light, shadow, and everything in between—is what makes it real.

Some parts of this still linger in me. Others have passed. And that’s okay.

More than two weeks have passed. And I miss it.