The sentence that wouldn’t die

Wrote a single paragraph for a client this morning — not even a full page — and it took me three hours. Not because it was hard, but because every word felt like it carried the weight of being seen. I kept deleting it, rewriting the same thought in different shapes, as if the act of sending it were a kind of surrender. The final version is still too clean, too polite. But it’s done. And now I’m sitting here wondering what happens when clarity becomes a kind of violence — when the brief you’re supposed to serve demands you erase yourself.