In my twenties, I was living in Boston, finding myself and filling endless notebooks with... well, with agonizing over the details of my life. I fancied myself a writer, involved in workshops and groups - poetry and fictional snap shots crafted in coffee shops and from the pink couch of my writing teacher. It was so liberating, exhilarating, empowering... I started this blog, but can't seem to fill it. The idea of putting down words still feels so scary. Even my comfort is no comfort these days. Yet another loss.
Sometimes, I feel like I have no words at all, only tears. Or the words that come are so maudlin, so trite. They don't seem to be...enough.
Maybe I'll start with their names: Jacob and Joshua.