Writing is sometimes, often times, the only thing that makes sense to me. It's the only way I know to settle my thoughts, and stop spinning in circles. The only way to get out of my head for a few precious moments, and make some startling realizations. Yet, more often than not, I avoid opening a blank document and close my computer just enough to keep the music playing, and I lay across my living room floor, eyes closed, wishing that the world could be a little softer. I get scared when I come to these realizations about life, because the more I learn, the further I get from the lies that make sense to me. The ones I've believed for so long, that I cannot separate them from real life without fighting. I seem to find any excuse to shut down, fall asleep, or consume a bottle of wine so that I can't stand up straight anymore, instead of attempt to make any progress towards a normal, satisfying life.

This doesn't make sense to me. It's not what I need to do, and yet day after day goes by, and I fall asleep on my couch after work, and wake up long enough to make something for dinner, fret over the calories I've consumed, and put myself back to sleep for the night. I wake up at 7 o'clock the next morning, still just as exhausted as I was the night before, despite getting plenty of sleep.

So I'm sitting at my kitchen table with a pot of Memphis Roasted Fairtrade coffee called "saving grace" and it's so delicious. I've cleaned my apartment, washed my face, and am waiting for a friend to pick me up. I'm going skating tonight, to practice my Roller Derby skillz. And I'm trying to get a few thoughts out on 'paper' so that I can think straight for the week. I've been listening to The Civil Wars all morning. None of this is really important though. The things that are important, are that which I can't seem to articulate. I can't seem to string the words together to create a coherent thought. Much less come to any sort of conclusion. But I continue to make journal entry, after journal entry in hopes that one day I can put them all together and figure out how to fix myself.

Then I wonder if maybe I'm not the one that needs fixing at all.

A few weeks ago, in the midst of trying to hold myself together and not completely unravel in the middle of work, I asked someone to hold my heart. I told them I didn't think I could possibly keep it safe right now. Admitting that I didn't even really want it at all anymore. That if there were any chance of me staying alive, that I needed someone who isn't backwards to hold on to it for me, at least for now.

So many things are missing, I don't know if I'll ever be whole. Hah! I don't know.

As a final thought: Well. I don't have any final thoughts. Morgan is here.