Confessional

(NYColor)

I'm listening to "Circus." (Yes, I love it.)

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I haven't even wandered near the writing front for a week or two now, which is pretty unusual for me. The only writing I've done is a secret.

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I love secrets, the feeling that you know something someone else doesn't. It makes me feel more important than I really am, like I know something exclusive, some kind of inside gossip, something special.

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I should have called you, but I didn't. I was too afraid to pick up the phone and dial.

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Somehow, I'm lost in this tangle of life. I don't know where I tripped and fell off the road, but I know I did.

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It's difficult to decide on a favorite novel. Some of my top rankers? "Paper Towns," "Speak," "Wintergirls," "My Sister's Keeper," "North of Beautiful." Each one did something for me. Each one spoke to me (no pun intended). Each one was powerful and handed me a new mirror.

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Sometimes I wonder if we have enough mirrors. When I find a new one (or receive a new one), I always feel like I don't have enough, because there are always more to discover and be discovered.

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The world is so complicated and cobwebby. When I'm reaching deep in the thread, I wonder why I'm here in the first place. Why, and equally as important: how. How I got here. How I made it to this place in the world, in whatever's written out for me to do and live through.

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I'm afraid this is a pretty life-reflective, meaning-of-lifey post, but it's exactly what I need(ed) to say.