I miss the days when things were simpler and being happy was easier.

Writing gets increasingly difficult as I grow older. I can't tell if it's because life gets messier and words have become insufficient or whether I simply no longer have the time to unpack my thoughts and put them down into writing.

Do the choices we make, make us who we are? Or are they simply revelations of our true selves? Are our choices predetermined? Or do we get to choose differently each time?

Is this analysis a biopsy or an autopsy?

What's the larger picture?

https://imgflip.com/gif/t3k9l

I am beyond exhausted. I have nothing left in me to give, no energy for the demands placed on me, no heart to hold space for others.

Is it selfish to want a person to always be there for me? Someone who bats on my team, who's on my side always. Someone who remembers me when I am forgotten

Redo-ing my room!

Renovating my room! Scouting for ideas is fun, but everything looks so pretty it's really hard to decide.

Words, words are such beautiful things. They take all these formless thoughts in my head, and all these nebulous feelings in my heart, give them a name, and make them visible and knowable. And in that moment when you look up into eyes that, having read these words, see you and relate to you in a soundless 'you too?', I am reminded that being human is a shared experience and I feel less alone.