This is where I got re-started a few years ago. I was sitting in my apartment living room in Hell’s Kitchen, surrounded by four Thai restaurants of the same name. My couch and coffee table were my office, dining room, and living room. I sat there and cried and tried to figure out my life. I often curled into a ball unable to leave my apartment. I had a telecommuting job from that same spot. And that is where I recommitted to write
as a way of life, for life, for living.
I had felt suffocated for a while, like I was holding something in – myself. Everything I believed and felt, everything I had to offer and give, even if it didn’t matter to anyone else.
I thought back to these moments in life when everyone around me used their voice, took up space with their thoughts and opinions – with ease – even when bigoted. They struggled aloud. They spoke.
And I stayed silent. And processed. And brooded. And struggled to speak. To open my mouth. To bring what I felt to fruition.
I don’t know exactly why at this moment that I decided to dust off my blog. Maybe because I had been contemplating the larger question of what to do with my life. How to give from my life. Maybe because writing had been my way before. Reading had been my way. The way that I came to understand life – at my own pace, from the safety of a book. And writing, it was how I waded into the pool of my thoughts without drowning. It was
a life raft, a boat.
This exact place – an internet space – was where I got started. Re-started. Re-connected with what I want to do in my life. To write and figure things out. To share and be honest. Vulnerable and raw. To go out having been myself.
So here I am. Dusting off my blog again. Finding and typing my way through