It’s Me Again

I wasn’t planning on writing tonight.

But I have learned not to trust that sentence.

In 2011, I gave my thoughts a room and called it a blog.

God.

That feels strange to say out loud.

Back then, metaphor found me when my mind was losing its grip. I decorated grief. Not because I was brave. Because I didn’t know what else to do with it. I made it beautiful so I could survive looking at it.

There were times I felt like I had imagined my entire existence. Not metaphorically. Literally. Like my life had become something I dreamed and forgot waking up.

So I went looking for myself.

Photographs. Drawers. Memories.

Anything that could prove I was here.

This happened.

I happened.

Then my father died, and something happened to language. Not all at once. More like a room growing quiet until one day you realize the conversation is gone.

So I retired this blog as if it had never existed. As if words could be cremated too.

Years passed.

Life happened.

The kind of life that sounds impossible when you place it all inside one sentence.

And now here I am, posting so much it is almost comical. Rapid-fire confessions from a woman who keeps insisting she wasn’t going to write today.

The truth is, I don’t like to say I’m a writer. Because I’m not.

I am just a woman trying to understand why an ordinary thing can suddenly split open and reveal an entire lifetime.

Because I don’t really write about what I’m writing about.

The thing is never the thing.

A refrigerator is not a refrigerator. A sunset is not a sunset. A silence is never just silence.

Everything opens. Everything has a second mouth.

And some feelings arrive so hungry they refuse to leave until they are fed.

So I leave them here. Not because they are beautiful. Not because they are finished. Because I am tired of being the only place they exist.

And maybe that is all this blog ever was.

Not a stage.

Not proof.

A room.

A small room inside the noise.

Somewhere my thoughts could sit down before I had to become a person again.