the days I spend not wanting to be myself seem to be piling up.

feeling restless. procrastinating every email, every phone call, and blog post even.

wishing I was alone in a field with nothing but a sketchbook and a pen. so much there is I wish to say, to articulate all of these incredible experiences with accuracy, but feeling they deserve better than my uneasy distraction.

the plus side is, these seem to be the only days I can stand to clean the house.

Patterns

Not writing what I intended to,
only what I never knew I needed to know.

Learning lessons while evesdropping on my own thoughts.

Sometimes in the silence I hear nothing but the voices of others.
And yet, when surrounded by so many, the music and conversations of hundreds,
my own voice calls out clearly to my fingers.

Sometimes these fingers know more than can be told,
knowing me best when I’m distracted.

Not wanting to rhyme,
I prefer to make sense of what you didn’t think possible,
to find the beauty in what others miss.

Who says florals can’t go with stripes?