There are nights I know that I could write myself dry, nights like these. I yearn to reach down from deep inside me, to really feel, to really pulse with who I am on the inside and be completely collinear for once: head, heart and soul. But somehow these words escape me. Time escapes me. I turn on my side and close my eyes. Morning arrives sooner than I ever want for it to and I mourn the passing of yet another night 

I have so much to say (I always do, it's the silliest thing) and I have so much to write about, but I feel like there has been a rude stoppering of my words yet again, by circumstances and situations. I like to romanticize life. So perhaps it is good for me right now to be wrung dry of words to festoon into a story; so that I may enjoy what it is like without an overwhelming need to document... so I may live in the rawness of everything. The pain and the desire, the wrestling and the warring, feeling like somedays I couldn't possibly want something more and somedays feeling I could trudge on and do okay. 

Year 2 has been good and bad. A breath of fresh air? Maybe. Maybe I've stopped trying to categorize days all together now. 

Here's to days ahead.