I’m Not Writing from the Heart

I just stopped by this blog by one of my favorite tweeps, @ArtemisRetreats, and I realized I feel like a fake.

That’s right, I am a big, neverending puff of hot air.

My blog is supposed to be this place where I can just write from the center of me, where I can change and progress and examine the world, through the lens of my own flaws and failures and joys.

But I suck at at that. I feel overexposed and bossy and unwilling to be flat on the top of the water’s surface.

I’m pretty words, but I am just light reflecting off broken shards of someone’s busted old sideview mirror. Lying in the dirt of an old parking lot in a forgotten part of town.

I am tired of being followed. I am tired of being watched and of being climbed on and conquered like a embattled hill. I am tired of wondering who is taking notes on the drudgery of my life, and taking tally of my own score: you know. Just in case. Just in case.

Just in case St. Peter or some other angel stops by to quiz me on whether I’ve been abiding my my own principles.

God forbid I catch a breath and stop the spinning, in between attempts at being good.

Easter is coming. Time to rotate the decor.

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