Writing and posting them more frequently has been a vulnerable thing. It feels as though I’m stripping naked in front of an unknown audience. Sometimes, it aches.
Actually, writing mostly aches.

The stage light hurts my eyes, bright enough to make me want to cloak myself in the shadows of the curtains. But I do not want to quit.
Not yet.

Today, I enjoyed leaving home before the skies cleared. It felt as though I was being shielded from whatever was waiting.

The current tabs open in my brain are: chocolate brown, wheat bread, friends, and home.

The traffic has been crazy lately. It always has been, but this feels different; like it never quite returned to the familiar crazy that I know.

Yesterday, after being forced to sit in an incredibly uncomfortable, back-twisting position in a taxi, I was alighted at least thirty minutes’ walking distance from my actual location and on a highway. I slammed the door shut so hard I just knew the driver insulted me for the rest of the journey.

To top it all off, sleep eluded me. So when the alarm rang at 4:45 a.m., it felt like a dream. Another day. A new day for me to wonder whether I feel any remorse about slamming that driver’s door.

I don’t.

All I’m really saying is this: showing up is hard.