I wish I could be better than this. I really wish I could. But lately, I’ve been tired. Been sort of battered. Broken, I guess is the case like the name here would suggest. Last month I sprained my ankle, just when I was getting into the best part of things. I got stuck on a pair of yellow crutches and had to take a break from the things I just began, like Saturday yoga in the park. Only this week has that started to feel better. I can get up from laying on the couch. But now, there’s an awkward pain in my side, in my back, I’ve had for a week now and a doctor’s appointment to check it out tomorrow. And I can only imagine the worst in things and more pain, more sitting around, more moments where I am not feeling one-hundred-percent and I can’t wait for a time when I can feel healthy and wonderful and free about it all.
I am usually not like this, but, you know, I guess right now I am just worn out. Very little. So if you’ve been wondering under what rock I’ve been hiding, I call it my living room. Where I go when everything seems a certain shade of wrong.
I feel stressed out about everything, but the only thing to do when you feel stressed out about everything is push forward. Break things apart and become something new. I feel myself on the verge of that, you know? There are new things to be tested out, old things to fix up. There is a lot and quite soon, I am going to be twenty-eight years old.
I want to get started on those things before then.
So, this is me. This is me trying not to be a broken mess of overexposed wires and a cut-up nervous system bits. The only way I know how to do that is in lines scattered across the internet with my intents and my wants. Filling my little diary with the patterns and steps I need to make, have to take.
And not with apologies but with outward connective sighs and photographs of my soft-serve swirl hair. Tell me about your days. Show me what your hair looks like when you wake up.