I have a strong desire to write, although I have no idea what it is that I want to say. I figure that if I just begin typing, the words will come, but I've been sitting here, my mind overflowing like a junk drawer with too many useless scraps of paper. The words must serve a purpose, be of some importance, but like a junk drawer, those bits and pieces stuffed inside have lost all meaning. I've become the observer, an outsider, watching from the periphery, where everything is filmed through a lens covered in gauze. Am I the dream or the dreamer? Yesterday feels far away, the memories already fading to black and white.
Holiday's can be difficult with the amount of food, and although it has been better, I still find it overwhelming. I see my nieces and their innocence, and that hurts the child that still lives inside of me. I know that eventually the pain will lessen. I felt so disconnected, came home and slept to escape, and today the feeling has passed. I remind myself that I'm safe and loved. The past is only the past...only the past.