A TINY HORROR STORY:
MONDAY.
I saw that sardonic sentiment emblazoned in white upon a pepper black sweatshirt and I wanted it. I wanted it, the real me whose face is not sutured with a counterfeit smile, the real me who is not an innocuous gnat, the real me whose veins course as thrill-filled tributaries to a heart that delights in this tiny rebellion. And so I bought it. And I wore it. And people noticed.
I have been homesick for Prim. Though writing is the only thing in this world that pardons me from the ordinary and grants me certain joy, I will abandon my writing practice like a sad newspaper left ignored on the driveway, condemned to perish to pulp. This time around, I squandered my true love for a trip to the beach, for an over the river, and through the wood turkey dinner, and for the spectacle that is the modern holiday season.
Yes, I am still a little wobbly. I do not have a clear vision for this blog. I am unsure of the types of posts that I want to write. I am unsure of how often I should post. I am unsure of my designation as writer. And still, this uncertainty is preferable to the sentence I served in writer’s block, bound by fear and self-doubt and inaction. A pair of posts may not seem like much, and yet, I’ve had to blink a baker’s dozen times to make sure that I am not dreaming.
