Transitions. Maybe that's why I haven't written. Have my growing pains been too ugly to put on paper? Or perhaps just too scattered. They haven't been words even, but rather an explosion of letters, a punctuation shower on parchment, fading images on a high-speed train into my forgettery. When did the moments go from moving too slow, to moving much too fast? Friends, lovers, jobs come and gone. Then marriage. Children? It seems that in retrospect, our lives are always the same, a few of the greats will have an untold story, but I am not meant to be that kind of woman. I don't know how to write without crisis. I built my life around being troubled, obscure, feigning to be unrelatedly lovable.
How do I create a story in simplicity, from simplicity, about simplicity? Looking back, my longing to be unique put me in the center of a steaming hot mess in Cliche Town. Sure, my mess might have been a little more sparkly than the ones you'd find on the barrage of reality TV shows my little sister loves so much, but, stripped down to the bare bones of it all, I was still just that, a hot fucking mess.
Please tell me the best writers were as unnoticeable as I am. Tell me the words will come back soon. I miss you old friend.
