I am a big fan of interacting through writing with what’s happening in life. That’s why I write this blog. That’s why I love other people’s blogs. That’s why I eat up Dough’s posts like black olive and provolone sandwiches.
Last night I read, like, a year of her posts in a row. Boop. They were from, like, 2009.
I read backwards to the date in February when she and I became friends. “Only two years ago!”, we have declared in shock.
I haven’t felt one hundred percent at ease publishing writing about myself because I've thought of how this sort of writing sometimes is viewed as narcissistic. I've heard someone call diary writing "navel-gazing." The annoying mirror shots, right? The point of this post is to say that I dig this sort of writing.
"but, of course, some days, I just lie around
and hardly exist,
and can´t tell apart what I´m eating
from my hand or my wrist,
´cause flesh is flesh, flesh is flesh is flesh,
the difference is thin.
but life has a certain ability of breathing new
life into me,
so i breathe it in.
it says here we are, and we all are here,
and you still can make sense,
if you just show up and present an honest face,
instead of that grin."