Many years ago I promised myself that someday – someday – I would write. But first I would need to live more, explore more, expand my world so that I would have experiences to draw from. And I would have to read, widely, to learn from the masters.
So I set out to live and I continued to read. The life I have been living has not been the one I imagined. It has been at once more ordinary and more weird that I have ever could have expected. Yet when I think about writing about my own experiences, I am no longer certain just how much I am comfortable sharing. And the more I read, the less confident I am about my own capacity to commit words to page.
Has reading humbled those ambitions of my much younger self?
roughghosts 
younger selves are still present
sometimes behind a few layers
of wallpaper 🙂
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Thank you for the wise comment though as I try to figure out how to navigate this process of creating a blog-space, I confess my present self is a bit entangled in the wallpaper!
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