Stories of love and heartbreak. Writing about jobs and school. Tales of music, movies and books. Wandering the world, and going home. Pictures and videos. Quizzes and psychology. Poetry.
The meaning and importance has waxed and waned over time. Sometimes it's impossible for me to stay away, because the words make everything better. Sometimes it's impossible for me to write—the place where the words come from is so painful that anything that touches it is just too much.
I've made friends here, and lost some. Revealed a lot (far more than I should have). Maybe used all the sharing as a shield to protect myself from telling some truths that had reason to be told.
It started when I was 33, married, with 2 degrees and no ambition to speak of. Zero tattoos and two piercings. Living in the Flatland, surrounded by friends but too far from my family. Now I'm 47, single, 3 degrees (and easing toward a fourth)—still terribly unambitious—but at least working "a real job" again. Ten tattoos and six piercings. Living in the land 'o lakes, surrounded by family and a few phenomenal friends but too far from the others. Freezing my goddamned ass off.
It started when I didn't think I could live by myself. That I would always need to be in the care of another, somehow. And now I question whether I could ever live with anyone again.
Through it all, there are still some people reading. That amazes and humbles me. Thanks for being here, suffering my lapses, humoring my excesses, commenting occasionally, and for reading. It helps.
[the title quotation is from "Broken" by Lifehouse]
No comments:
Post a Comment