there’s a laundry list of reasons why I don’t want to write tonight.
(that’s a lie.)
the truth is I am simply weary.
Seventeen days of writing is hard, harder than I expected. Lately, it’s been a lot of fiction and poetry (which I did not expect to happen) because dropping my own heart on the keyboard is too hard to do on the daily. Because for now, real sentences escape me most days. Because I don’t know what else to say about me. Because you probably don’t want to read about my life every dang day.
Telling stories – even stories that exist only in my imagination and not stories that are written on my bones – telling stories is tiring. Spilling hearts & souls onto the screen is exhausting.
And yet, here I am. My brain is all out of words and still they entrance me, haunt me, embrace me. A beautiful woven phrase makes me catch my breath and there’s a beauty in the rhythm of a sentence that matches the beat of my heart.
So here I am. Still struggling with the words. Still trying to tell you a story. I’ll be here, telling you stories, until I run out of stories to tell. And then, I’ll tell you the same ones over again.
After all, the best ones never grow old.