To Share

I used to be able to share. 

Now even fiction seems too naked.

For all the code words and all the effort to imprint some corner of space with proof and purpose and ultimately the truth, I'm coming up afraid. Shaking in my ugly little boots, All jittery knees and sweaty palms. I'm not sure of what... Or of why... Or how it came to be that the reality of my sacred, hidden life became so hard to share... 

But at the end of the day. In the first light of morning. At 2:00PM when I'm fighting a mess in the kitchen. Anytime. It's always the same... My life, that no one sees, is too precious to entrust to anyone. Real love is fragile and needs to be protected. No one could ever grasp the beatings of my heart. Except one.

So I won't share.

Epiphany at the Corner of Bruce and North Maple

If nothing else, an onslaught of unfortunate events and circumstance forces you into one of two reactions.

Defeat, or Revolution.

After spending a month feeling very much the first I hit a breaking point. But rather than fold into myself and exploit this victim role, I laughed. Could it be real? The universe hasn't conspired against me... Sometimes bad things happen and it's not something I can personalize. It's okay to be frustrated and to feel a little lost but you can't live there.

And I pulled myself up, out and forward. After all, it could be worse and my life is brilliantly beautiful. I don't have time to waste on being pathetic and hopeless. 

A Proper Place to Write

I told him today, I missed a desk the most. A proper place to write. In the last month that's all I've wanted. I've never not had that. 

As nice as it is, daydreaming and indulging in some floating consciousness, the truth is I need the solidity of pen on paper, paper on wood. A tidy little hideaway, complete with tiny metal clips, stamps, and envelopes waiting to be stuffed. It's calming.

I used to write elaborate poetry to the loves of my life I had yet to meet in a space like that. I could avoid the endless sentence of a marriage I hated. I could be my own Blake. Be my own Bukowski. I could be me.

Writing is my sanity. And a desk, the vessel. Tomorrow begins my search. 

Wish me luck.

x

At Home, She Whispered

Some people make a home where they adventure to. Some make a home from circumstance. Some runaway and never find a home. 

I'm at home in my own head.

This small town, filthy, backward, lonely little town is familiar but only in the way a reoccurring nightmare is. It represents failure to me. I feel like I'm drowning here. I guess I am. Leaving, I suppose is the best way to handle it, but simple as it is to say -- it's not simple at all.

I guess that's why I live in my head. Sure, it's a flood of things tangible and mystic alike, but I can swim there... And I can make sense of it. I'm thankful for being far away, though, I feel removed. It serves my weird and private, protective existence well. But... And I whisper this with no hope attached... If there is a physical space, a place of my own, tidy and quiet and swollen with music from the needle of beautiful, vintage record player... I hope I am indeed headed there.

A Shred of the One Speaking

This is me. 

Just a little. Not much. 

I am 28. Nearly 29. I am an introvert. I am insecure and humble. I am quiet. I collect vinyl. I love Star Wars. I hate pets.

I like things tidy.

I'm a vampire in love with a werewolf. Werewolf has a name but I'm saving it because he's sacred.

So this is me. That's all you'll be seeing.

x

Nosferatu in Hiding

I have always been a loner.

I could, most assuredly, end this post now and that 6 lines, that ends in a period would sum up everything I care to share. I HAVE always been a loner.  I was a weird kid, growing up. As it turns out, I'm still a weird kid, I just have extra quirks like a failed marriage and a gaggle of adorable, loner offspring. This blog isn't for that. It's for me. And while I'm sure, from time to time, they'll find a way into my words, I need this. I need a safe spot.

I thought, when this year began, I would never blog again. I met a man, and that man, being most smitten with me, managed to dig up old blogs and facebook posts and the like, that a very sad, false, me had riddled the internet with. It's funny how what was once solace becomes a demon in your past. I never wanted that pseudo reality to be a burden, but I also never thought I would have a life of my own.

And, so, I came back. Or, so it seems, am back for a time. Not to be specific, or poetic, or self assured... and certainly not to be false... I came to write. I need to write. And I need to leave something that's true. Even if no one ever reads it.

Here's to getting older. Here's to being a weird kid. And here is to the someone that shows us we are worth a damn.

Enjoy. x