Writing me

I’ve reread my life over and over, trying to make sense of it. The run on sentences, these missing periods, can I find peace in them?

I’ve filled in the missing pieces with these leftover letters. Shifted them around and around, till it sounds better.

Now when I read my life… is this my life? Or just some bitter fool who tried to hide his inner strife.




What does your blog mean to you?

It isn’t a post. It isn’t a lot of posts.

At least not for me.

My blog is my dark room where I can slam the door to the world and scream a little bit and no one looks at me like I’m crazy. I talk to myself here… I talk to myself everywhere actually. I’ve given up wondering if that’s strange and I lay my voice to rest here. My fingers type the sounds of my thoughts and I can sleep finally.

It’s a place for my tongue to bake in the sun a little bit until I’m tired of talking and want to give it all a rest.

It’s a second home.

That’s blogging.