Returning Home

I feel like the prodigal son whenever I return to this blog page.

Like someone who had something good but is taking it for granted and ignoring it. Until some discomfort comes along, then I return to this little yellow wall and begin typing like a mad woman until I feel sane again.

Once in an ambitious era I wrote a short story about a powerful woman who had men come outside her door at night and sob about the pathetic life decisions they had made. These men would sob all night, drunk. The next morning she would open her door and they would dust off their sorry selves and, fully embarrassed, come in and sit on her couch. She would never judge them, but she would observe them. She always had a big fat file about all the things they had done- because she was a powerful woman who knew everything about them.

In many ways this blog is the powerful woman and me the pathetic man who stands outside the door and whines about not being able to write until my body and mind are in-sync enough to open up this laptop and start typing again.

Thankfully my blog is kind and non-judgemental, and yellow walls are what I always dreamed my home would have.

So bear with me as I come and go. Sometimes overwhelming you, and sometimes making you forget about my existence. But constantly thinking about the freedom you gave me, yearning for it every time I sit down to write, anywhere that’s not yellow.


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