There’s something about telling my own narrative that feels so comforting. The way I stammer and wander, trying to find my way toward goodness. The way I fear for anything bad happening to the ones I love the most. How I would tell my mother I loved her to the moon and back. My struggle with anxiety and how that somehow makes me more tolerant of others. That time I threw my body across my dying father. What a struggle it is to get through the day, sometimes. The sweet, unbridled joy I feel when I settle in to the moment I’m experiencing. How hard it is for me to let go. How easy it is for me to keep a secret tally. All of this. All of this and so much more. There’s the wishing and the hoping and the dreading and the fearing—all part of my kaleidoscope narrative. All part of the details of the journey of my life. All part of the swift movement of who I feel I’m meant to be—who I feel I’m meant to document in the open space that I call you.
Yours In Endless Introspection,
Sally So On and So Forth