I started this blog a while ago, intending to write a lot. After the first post, I got a little hate. I tried to wrap it up nicely and quickly so as not to sit in that discomfort. In doing so, I lost all passion to write. 

I think the purpose of writing is to get in touch with whatever is alive in us. If we feel we have to sanitize it for consumption, there’s really no reason to write in the first place. So there I was. I didn’t feel comfortable writing if it was making people uncomfortable. It’s a really self-denying position, but a human one. Probably something everyone struggles with from time to time.

In the meantime, I kept writing privately and reading for my own edification. Today I feel like I’m full. I’m full of information. Like I’ve been inhaling constantly for years, my lungs are full to bursting, and I need to exhale. I need a place for the things I’ve been carrying. That’s what this was supposed to be, and this is where these things will go moving forward.