I'm never sure of the point of this blog. It's creation was for nanowrimo but that never got off the ground past the planning stage.
Writing about Lis, the "secret" writings, seemed to have a home here during winter but I don't want to hide. I really didn't then. I xposted.
Any secret I have in my life is either not worth being a secret and so I share, or is a secret that I end up sharing beside myself because I love you so much or I want you to love me so much, or I hold it in the only truly secret place there is. Not even a place, it's a being. It's me.
I've long thought that the day I could finish that sadly familiar paragraph with 'it's you' my life would be solved. Not completely but foundation wise. I cling; whether that is obvious doesn't quite matter.
I'm very thankful for the driving influences in my life. Why can't I tell them?
Today starts said month. month to be said. officially. starchy pressed shirts. legal pads. all that jazz. I'm just going to own myself. This man isn't freaked out by me so why should i be freaked out by him, an excellent point.
her space holiday. I had forgotten. and my moonlight mile. "you've just listened to late night tales..." and how that window's midnight reflection excited me so. where i discovered the pours of perfect song... how songs are only perfect when they tell the story you want her to know she belongs to. I'll always have that home where the beans are better off as mold. where i fell in love with that part of me. words of appeared incoherent savor. you are my secret decoder ring.