i don't even know how to start writing anymore. i know i need to do it. i know it'll help me process.  i know it doesn't have to be good or make any sense. it doesn't have to be anything but what it is and i should just get over this weird mental block I have about it and just do it instead of pretending that the kitchen needs a good cleaning or purging my closet for the up-teenth time or deciding i need to make a cake or any of the many unnecessary tasks i give myself to do instead of writing.

something else will always feel more important when faced with doing the one thing i don't want to do right now.

and what is it, to not want to write?  what am i avoiding?  why don't i want to drone on endlessly about myself and my many feelings about many things?  isn't that every narcissists dream?  isn't this why people blog in the first place?

there is nothing special happening in my life in this moment.  it's all work, pt exercises,  contemplating what to eat for each meal, possibly a workout, possibly yoga, most likely cancelling one of the two and mostly all dog all the time.

i look at bean square in the face on a daily basis and tell him i love him so much that i cry and in my masochistic way i think about what would i do if he died and then i start to cry harder. 

yes. i do this to myself. i don't know why.

it's like the week before my knee surgery i had a nightmare that someone broke all of charlie's legs and i cried every day leading up to my surgery about it. the pain inside about this thing that did not happen felt so visceral and real and sharp.  

but most of the time, most days, i feel like i'm tip-toeing around big emotions i don't understand. there is something brewing inside of me that wants out and i'm doing everything in my power to keep it in.  i just know that one day while i'm going through the business or work, earning a  paycheck and saying dumb things on the internet i am going to break in half and all of it will come spilling out, all of this wild emotion, a big to do about nothing.

i am filled with imposter syndrome.

i teeter the line of being burdened with glorious purpose and being nothing but a piece of lint in the stinky navel of one tiny universe in an infinite sea of universes.

the need to be seen and the need to be completely invisible both live inside of me and are at war currently.