we’ll figure it out.

Words have always seemed cozy to me.

Welcoming. Inviting. Sentences seem so beautiful I want to knit them into a sweater and wear them on my sleeves all winter long, curling my fingertips ’round the hem and burrowing deep, deep inside that word-sweater and letting it keep me warm.

(I’ve probably used that metaphor before. Forgive me.)

But lately, it’s seemed all sharp edges and unfamiliar corners.

I want to make myself a haven inside this blog, curl up and whisper to you about my hopes and dreams. About my fears, too, my failures and fallings and forgettings.

I’m not sure how, anymore. My sentence-stitching fingers are clumsy and my heart seems to have said stop, stop pouring me out on the page. Cause sometimes it gets tiring, wearing your heart on your sleeve. I’ve been working toward vulnerability, and that’s thin ice to walk on. And I know I wrote about this already – about coming back and rust and pounding the keyboard, spilling the words out and making this place home again.

And I meant to make it home again. I mean to make it home again. I do.

I don’t know how.

And I’m not even sure why I’m saying this – why I’m forcing the words out, because do you really need to hear this? Do you really need to know this?

Probably not. Feel free to close this tab and carry on with your life at this point if you would like. I understand. It’s a busy world and ain’t nobody got time for a rambling girl.

But I think I need to say it. I think I need to write it, to inhabit this space again, to try it on again and again until it fits. Until it feels just right.

I want this. I want to be back here, I want to write. I want to want to write. And maybe if I can say that, if I can put it out there, if I speak it, I can make it happen again.

I want to slow down. I want to spill my heart out again. I want to juggle words like balls, laughing when I catch them and trying again when I don’t. I want to believe that maybe you’ve got time for a rambling girl. I want to believe that my rambling sentences might form coherent thoughts. I want to believe that my shouting into the internet does something. I want to believe that these rambling words can make a difference. Can find someone out there, someone feeling the same way, and say: It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.

All of it. This writing thing, and this heart-on-sleeve thing, and this life thing. We’ll figure this out.


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