There has been so much staring at ceilings lately, and so much I want to say, need to say, yet perhaps for the first time in, I don’t know,
-ever?- I am finding myself at such a deep loss I don’t know how to begin. The words start to come, gently… bravely, and then a swipe of fear and anger sends the letters swirling again into a meaningless pile. Perhaps I need one of those, what are they named? Where you hand them your disarray of crumpled papers, scribbled on napkins, and mismatched words and they turn it into a beautiful slice of neatly bound literature. Yes, perhaps I must find myself one of those. In the meantime, it’s coming. These emotions I am learning to put words to are braving the sticky ink and the foreboding pages, and they are gaining strength with the hope that someday they could be the mantra to someone else’s impossible. Someday they will be someone’s cherished slice of remembering, so I had best get to writing.

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