Welcome Home

I pause for a moment and the light changes.
I've not been home in a year.
The rumbling of the self, like shifting plates, catastrophically changing the face of the earth.
It’s so big.
So swayed by emotions—I indulge to chart the depths of this bizarre experience.

Never will I be able to speak as I write to you.

Lost in the footnotes of Dave Eggers’ Heartbreaking Work, I read something like, “and I wondered if they wanted me to just go away,” something so earnest and self-deprecating—I felt something twist inside my chest. How could such a brilliant soul honestly feel a burden? And tighter still because I knew, too often feeling that way myself.

There is no way to win this game.
There is no sense in wishing it were different, because it would still be the same.

The amount of stupid things I’ve said and done.
I am cringing practically every moment, except when I know I’m distracted.

My awkwardness is like a flaky crust.
My insides runny and pathetic, with the occasional savoury morsel.

Sometimes I’m too tired to buck up.

Expect nothing from me.