It’s time to write. It’s time to write even when I can’t think of anything to write about.
Writing was my joy, my breath, my sanctuary, my peace… and I’ve gone so long trying to replace it that it has become my stumbling block, my slippery slope, my shaky surface. How could a love go so wrong?
Well, hell, that’s a pretty stupid question coming from me; love goes wrong all the time, very very very wrong in the blink of an eye. I should understand that at the very least.
But I know that even in it’s most wrongness, there is a rightness to be uncovered and so I am stretching out my wee broken bits of courage and cracking my knuckles over the keyboard. I am sitting down with my fears and my hopes and I am writing.
This is for me.