I tried to write. I sat in my garage late into the night, staring at my lit up darts board. I really tried to write. From the heart. But it was too much, too revealing and too unseemingly.
Bullseyes. Bullshit. If you aim for the “moon,” you will truly fall. I fell onto a shooting star and it sure ain't a fun ride, so far.
I could keep throwing darts, over and over, having my goals met or being all over the map. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t.
Literally, what’s the point? What’s the point?
You know the "Story of the Hour," by Chopin? I feel like that woman just saw her supposedly dead husband walk into the door. The only difference is, I didn't collapse or die, but I kept going down the stairs, leaving that small window behind.
just a mother who fled from society's constraints and is super excited to wake up to the outdoors, remain braless daily and teach her boys the art of boredom and discovery.