Some days I’m cloaked in veils, hiding underneath 10 thin layers of dark lace and dim lies.
Some days I’m grasping for straws, looking for love from men who keep one hand open and one fist balled shut.
Some days I resent the very precious Internet sanctuary I built by hand. Because I now realize that writing about your downfalls doesn’t always kill your demons. Sometimes you dance for years with the exact same devils. Some days you write and write and write and still have the monsters underneath your bed.
Some days I wish that my storytelling abilities didn’t skyrocket when it was time to chronicle unrequited love and the ones who didn’t last. I want the good stories. I want the great love. I want to write outside the lines of heartache.
Some days I don’t feel like I’m living as honestly as I write, like I’m shouting from the mountaintop about authenticity while still digging through thorns to figure out who and what I am.
Some days I am both finished manuscripts and ripped out pages. Rich soil and wild weeds. Pitch black caves and one million beams of light. All of the things at the exact same time.
Some days I still worry when the question marks will become periods, and I won’t have to wonder anymore.
Some days are really most days–a coming-of-age cyclone, a hard peer into a smoky mirror, a fight to gain footing and trust this thing called the process.