The external world is made of hard edges and sharp corners. It is limited by its own being, throwing up physical walls and barriers, things to trip on and stumble over.
But the internal is misty, soft. Light here is diffuse. Nothing seems real.
I want to take what is in me and make it concrete. To bring smooth curves into the harsh world. Maybe this is what it means to be a writer, an artist. Taking dreams and and giving them form is a kind of magic. Taking a belief and seeing it through, even when there is no reason for faith in your feelings. It is primal.
I must take things out of me, unpack myself, in order to survive the pressure of what builds within. I must siphon off my foggy interior. Clear my insides. And so I serve it to you, second hand, and you run your fingers over it and wonder.