So I've just finished what is my 8th move in the past year. Yes, the girl who thought she'd stay forever in the bubblegum pink room in the creaky white house that her great-grandfather built on the corner of Banks and Scott has been a semi-nomad for the past year and has come to settle in a little white trailer behind a church. I'll be here for two months, and then - well, your guess is as good as mine.
It's been a rough few days...very rough with way too much time to marinate in my own thoughts and self-doubt and a host of other not-so-great stuff. It's not good for me to be alone too much with myself.
I've been writing in clipped, few-lined journal entries, and it's hard for me to explain why. I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out, and my heart's still way more beat up than I'm willing to admit. Hopefully someone finds that more beautiful than I do.
Gotta get out of this place. Gotta get out of my head.
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