An Assortment of Not-Rights

Where to even begin. So many new beginnings – ashamed, rebirthing, maybe regurgitating. A grand detox of a sort with my absence on the blog. What would I even say? Am I where I want to be? And to think I doubted that it always works out when time and time again I’m shown that the tracks merge. Kismet of some sort. 

That weight in my lungs – air, knots, other sensations – fills my ribs comfortably now. Hard for me to write when I’m full of helium but at this specific moment on a Friday evening, I’ve deflated. Balloon without air and not fearing an inevitable popping. Or maybe these are just words. 

I just write for myself. Sometimes magazines, literaries; but even then, that’s for myself. And maybe I have a way with words (I like to think that I do, at least. Would be ideal), but when I’m meeting someone I’ve known for 5 years as if it could very well be the first time – when he tells me he wants to know how I got dirt under my fingernails, that it’s important that he knows that. Yeah. Makes me want to live the right life. Makes me feel like nothing that has happened was ever a mistake. It had to happen this way.