It’s funny, well not funny more annoying, that so many thoughts appear throughout the day, screaming to be written down.
Then i sit down to write, and…nothing. Blank. Numb.
That, is the worst thing.
But then sometimes I write a bit - disturb the white silence - some blockage loosens, lets a trickle out…
…
Early evening,
I walk for an hour through the city to a dinner party with friends.
Autumn in Victoria is not as stunning as Montreal, but lovely still.
(why do I compare everything, always, to mtl? first love i guess)
Already-crushed brown leaves, withered and broken in a street gutter after someone else’s enthusiastic stomp.
The smell of dinners cooking.
When I cross the border into my old neighbourhood, everything is familiar, like I’ve seen it all a thousand times. I have seen it all a thousand, a million times. I know it is beautiful but I hardly see the beauty. I see memories - younger me’s and them’s. Everywhere I look.
…
It’s strange, writing ‘anonymously’ - I understand the appeal, now.
I can be completely honest and no one will know it’s me?
I feel invisible and completely exposed at the same time.
Maybe next time I’ll say something real. Something I’ve never said out loud before.
Maybe. It’s scary, no?
…
Best moment in the last week: birthday hug.
My little brother, not so little, now.
