writing by feeling

Writing by feeling is ostensibly a junk exercise, a serial malpractice; of, recklessly explaining the rivers of oneself out loud with feverish expectation of complete loss and futility. An ample test of tepid rejection; one I try for and pass. I cannot help it. That first nameless street leaves me predisposed to loss and no simple words to explain it. It being: imminent loss. unreachable loss. I was small and spun a plastic globe and could understand that distance meant so much more. So I dig, write, not to tell of oceans but of rivers, the narrowest ones. Invite rejection, make accidents. Both are easier to accept that way.