Wednesday, August 14, 2013


I rush there to write--to my home or the coffee shop down the street. I go there enough to be a regular, to know some names, which is so nice that I can barely contain my joy over it. Small and simple. Just enough to matter. I remember my hours there.

This, right here, is the constant. My scribbling. Crumpled receipts scrawled on and tangled in my bag or in the glove box. Oh and in my wallet, next to a horrific bank statement. To stagger somewhere between missing events to dismantle poems or staying out until the birds start again and the sky goes light. I haven't been sleeping well lately--this is true. In unrelated news I've kicked my soda habit.

And just now I looked up at the mantel, saw the birthday card made by my niece, how she spells "Ant Nike" and it fills me with so much love that I want to cry. The physical distance, at times, plays tricks on my mindset. Some days I seem to forget about all that love and it pains me to say that. Routine on a cloudy day. I don't think I want to be in this city anymore.

Currently listening to Will Sheff & Charles Bissell sing "Ex-Girl Collection."

Since returning from the retreat early last month, I've been pulling all the boards off the entryways on this big heart of mine. I've been attempting to trust instinct--true, genuine-me instinct as opposed to a trained response of defense. I don't have to be a fist. You get what you give, and lately I've been giving all the love I can to the process and progress of connecting with other human beings. It's not always comfortable, but it's so much more living than the darkness. I've learned so much by simply being open. I know I'm late to the game on this but that's alright. All this to say right now I'm really, really enjoying myself. More soon.

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