It’s taken me two pages of notes and linking word-circles to realize I’m looking to find what I could possibly have to write about. What I may have that you might find entertaining or helpful, even interesting. Prior to my health rollercoaster, I had clear ideas of what I thought I could and should share. Now it’s like I’ve lost that path and am struggling to forge a new one.
I am not the same person. That pre-C me is gone or hidden so deeply it may take some time to find her. And if I do…or don’t…I’ll figure it out, cause I’m not quitting. I owe it to myself to find any version of myself. I can’t not write. The urge for pen in hand going across the page or the clicking of a keyboard as I type is too much for me. It’s plain old frustration screaming for words to put down.
Change is scary. Unknown is a vast blinding room of oneness, no matter what colour you use to describe it.
And I’ve crossed out so many repeating words and phrasings that I know this ramble has reached its end.