true at first light

being a journalist seems like a lovely job. i am sitting in tunisia, in a hotel someone else paid for, on a plane ticket somebody else paid for. and still it’s only a cover up. because you are afraid that one day the words won’t come or they are there but they are out of order, and there is no index. or then there is the words, the order, the images on your mind. they just don’t fit to the topic you are writing about. it comes back in the night when you can’t sleep and you think of stories you have written and should write but nobody asks you to write them. because they don’t understand that some things need to be told, to be shown and need to be let out. peace of mind.

i believe.