Mad Musings

  To sit down and purposefully write for this feels wrong, weird even. I don’t write with an audience in mind, to be honest. I just write. I write out my feelings and when inspiration strikes. To find things to blog about feels disingenuous… So why not write about that? Writing purposefully feels weird after a while. It’s most likely because when I started writing I had a lot of big emotions to get out. I often wonder if that’s why I find it hard to write sometimes. To be blunt, my dad passed away around a month after I turned 9. That’s a lot to deal with. It started me into being really introspective, before this point I was loud, rambunctious, and forthright. A kid obviously. I remember liking a boy nearly twice my age and making him hold my hand and my sister scolding me for kissing his hand. I loved hard. A force of nature. I terrorized the people I had crushes on. I imagine it was 2-3rd grade when I stopped. I don’t remember much about that time. I remember things from kinderg...

       S ometimes days stretch on endlessly. The kind of endless that sinks into the bones. That rests heavily on the muscle. And pulls at the skin. It's a deep-seated discomfort.     As a child, I wrestled with this heaviness often, as an adult, I wrestle with this feeling often. You would think with such a vast head start on coping  with  heaviness I'd be miles ahead of understanding it. You'd think I'd be at grips with the way my soul droops.     Yet instead, I sit here  with lids peeled back wide-eyed and aghast. How could the weight on my shoulders ever compare  To each atrocity  whizzing across my screen? The world has never felt so connected, yet so damn isolating.     The need for comparison, where does it stem from? I wonder. Maybe when the big feelings were too big I was asked to be small compact not life-sized.      What problems could a child possibly have? When I am confronted, by the ...