checking in

Saturday, September 19

Every word I'm trying to write feels contrived. Or maybe I'm just tired and stressed and a weird version of lonely that I am severely not ok with. Every metaphor feels reached for and foreign on my tongue. Then again, I doubt that it's new or fascinating that another twentysomething is having an existential crisis. But it feels important. It feels big. And I miss you. All of you. And I miss the words in my own head as much as I miss yours. I'm still here. The here is just very flexible and strange.


  1. All we will ever have are our words to convey our thoughts. Everything else gives us physical satisfaction and fleeting inspiration

  2. "nothing of me is original; I am a combined effort of everyone I've ever known." Do you read Chuck Palahniuk at all? I feel like you'd love him, so you probably have. This reminded me of that quote. And I can relate to this feeling extremely well.

  3. This hits the right chords and I have been here time after time


Thank you for your words; they light a fire in my heart. You are lovely.