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.

4 comments:

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

    ReplyDelete
  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.

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

    ReplyDelete

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