Is this how it starts? One (of many) moments of clarity where the keyboard finally becomes an option? In the kitchen, on top of shit that still needs to be put away after unpacking in a new (f’d up) place, while washing dishes and watching new episodes of S3 New Girl?
I’ve always had stories, generally reserved for the purpose of amusement in the present, though occasionally allotted for a good laugh in a crowd. Fear is a terribly unfortunate and powerful thing. Fear to share. Fear to be. Fear to live.
I hate it.
I’ve spent the majority of my adulthood trying to bury and forget about my life, while simultaneously trying to figure out which “real life” works for me. I know that truth is the key to moving forward… after all, we’re all fucked up.
I’m just in the mood to tell some stories now…