MADISON BUTCHKO
Writer’s high
There are moments when the body hums with a tension, as if the day itself tightened its grip around one’s shoulders, around one’s mind. This pressure has no form, at least not yet, though I feel it swelling inside, pulsating throughout my body, demanding discharge. I know it well — the accumulation of emotions, unspoken thoughts and the weight of experiences pressed too long against my ribs. I know it must come out. And so I move, instinctively, without thought. Whether it’s my fingers or my legs, I simply move forward.
September 5, 2024