It’s been like forever since I sat down and wrote something.
I’ve had alot on my plate lately and have very ofen contemplated about writing, but it just never seemed that I allowed the time to make this happen.
Writing is like a breath of fresh air it seems.
As if my whole body just exhales and I can fall complacently upon my desk and breathe in again as my head lay plastered there on my desktop.
I’ve thought long and hard about past relationships.
I’ve thought long and hard about family.
I’ve thought long and hard about ex’s that have passed.
I’ve thought long and hard about family that has passed.
I’ve thought long and hard about my Napoleon.
I’ve thought long and hard about my life and where I’m at in this great complexity of a fish bowl analogy.
I have wondered about the people that have passed.
Their relationships with those others.
Do they still continue?
Have my brother’s had a longer relationship with my nana and grandpa then I, considering that they are all passed now?
And my ex’s.
Can they really see me from above?
Probably not, but can they sense how I feel?
Is this why orbs exist?
Is this why doves appear at my door?
A big word.
Alot, alot, alot of connotations.
Are you a philosopher now?
Do you just like to shoot the shit at whatif’s?
Isn’t God a much, much bigger word?
The skies here in California seem to always be blue.
The ocean here in California.
This great majestic beauty of strength.
Is timid at times.
People walking, talking, laughing, smiling.
People yelling, crying, arguing, fighting.
Just where to begin to write your memoirs?