What if, instead of becoming paralyzed whenever I think of starting to write more again, what if I just stop not writing? For some of the most important years of my life, I couldn't help but document. The need hasn't gone anywhere. It's been channeled and diffused, but I still feel compelled to slow living down in order to look at it and mold it... to see it instead of just experiencing it. What if I got myself a little notebook? The physicality of those little notebooks might have been the link that kept me red blood alive.
When I considered the disconnect between me and mom the other day (moments before drifting off, naturally), I felt a flash of fear that maybe she would give or throw away the crate of my journals and diaries that have been kept in her basemen for twenty years. She's hinted at what a nuisance my storage has been for nearly as long... and has even given some of my old things away without asking. Who's to say someday it wouldn't be my journals... in a fit of spite or daffiness or who knows what asinine reason there might be. She believes in Qanon doctors, for chrissakes.
At this moment, I feel more urgency to recover those journals more than I feel the need to build any bridge across the enormous gap that exists between the two alternate realities mom and I exist it.
