Feb 2022
This time last year, I stopped writing a film. Diagnosed it as overworked. Prescribed myself space. Unsure if I needed space from my words or myself.
Picked it up yesterday. One year since. The words were cathartic then, poisonous now. I’m astounded at the depth of my own fury. Alphabets soaked in vitriol, waiting for a match. The words are looking back at me from the paper. they are defiant. They are my words. I remember writing them. This is my handwriting. But the words and I - we do not understand each other anymore.
Will have to delete them. Start over again. It is harder than I thought it would be. Never not been angry, so never realised letting go of anger is the ultimate act of destruction. now, will have to hold myself tenderly. This is also a new experience. I have never known softness. my hands will learn how to be kind. this will be the year for the real thing.