Only the wind and trees know. I’ve had so many names, so many phases and faces, I may as well be the moon. I’m a million years old and not getting any younger. And my roots are showing grays. Twisted and tangled. Save for a few strays.
How I’ve missed blogging. How I’ve missed words.
My birthday is next Friday. I feel old.
I’ve been wondering what the purpose of my life is. Why I don’t understand it. Why everyone else is doing just fine and excelling at it, and I can barely seem to keep my eyes from drowning. Someone sewed water into them poorly and they leak always. None of the moments in my life that I thought would be worth calling great ever have been.
But it’s interesting. When you meet someone, across the cosmos, and words sustain them the very same way words comfort you. Maybe there is a reason.