Monday, January 25, 2016

I don't like getting too personal here; in a way it still feels like the hardest part about being a writer. But photos of a weekend trip to Michigan don't seem to convey the scope of what I'm feeling either. 

I hate the look of perfection, cleanliness. (But I love it too.)

Maybe I read the news too much, and the accounts affect me more than I know. Or getting older, I have met too many people. Their tragedy on facebook touches me (a boating accident in Hawaii). Or the people they know's tragedy touches me (a terrifying way to go in Belize).

And then there's the somewhat paltry in comparison day-to-day stuff. A new relationship. A second time around. The same old me. 

Perhaps that's why I like fiction. To deal with all of this with a front, hiding behind imaginary story lines.

I should get out and go on a walk. That seems to be all I know for now.

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