I am writing because I never quite came back.
Really, I never had permission to be or rather I was waiting for just one other person to say it. It was okay to start a blog. It was okay for me to start a blog. In fact, I should start a blog. I would start a blog some day. These thoughts carried on, they were the unlicked, unsealed envelopes I stuck between both lobes of brain, keeping them from rubbing against each other like the two thighs under my laptop. Somehow, my tongue still stung for paper cut, slapped the roof of my mouth, tasted the envelope glue, but I never sent it off. ever. Hell, I never even wrote the damn letters, they just sit and rot the head.
It came upon suggestions and sometimes polite command. “You know, you should really start a blog or something. You’re a pretty good writer, you could write shit.” Do a thing with all the going on have, share it.
Really? Like someone would want to read it? What a joke. It needs to go somewhere else. It is simply too much, throw it out. Air out this dirty laundry, these secrets should breathe. Take all of it out, put it all in some other millennial landfill. You know the one they call the internet. Separate it from yourself. Come full circle, lift a finger? No. Simply click, close window, open, charge and repeat as often as you like. This is an early twenty something me letting a greater great grandmother sleep in this here body even if only for a moment.