still no title

it's funny how I am writing about breaking free of circles and yet at this moment I am such a stereotype: I am sitting in an amazing coffeeshop called Pearl Café in san antonio shopping center and I am experiencing mild writer's block (which really should be called writer's frustration because I am not stuck and still and heavy, I am angry and sad and suspended).

sometimes what I write gets lost to editing & I post it here to un-forget:
I knew my grandparents in passing. No cookies, no knitted tops, just language barriers and weird lovable traits like collecting broken objects in the hope of one day fixing them, or lowering their lips to the mucus-filled nostrils of children, sucking, then spitting. And yet I felt so much pain and regret. I wish I ‘d told my grandpa that the little he could give me was more than enough.

and to remember my forever writer's frustration:
the hardest thing to write about is to write about being desensitized because all I feel is dampness. I am buzzing with ideas but I cannot be bothered to put them down that's not true. I want to write them down, I do. They just never come out the way I want. and when they don't, the words are dead, stillborn, and I am discouraged.

That is my frustration in a nutshell.