“Write because you want to communicate with yourself. Write because you want to communicate with someone else. Write because life is weird and tragic and amazing. Write because talking is difficult. Write because it polishes the heart. Write because you can. Write because you can’t. Write because there is a blackbird outside of my window right now and oh my god isn’t that the best start to the day? Write because you’re trying to figure yourself out. Write because you might not ever figure yourself out. Write because there still aren’t enough love poems in the world.”
-Dalton Day
I used to think that something was wrong with me. Nothing felt right, nothing fit. Since i was a child I would rearrange my furniture almost weekly, except now that I’m older instead of moving furniture I just move myself, place to place, coast to coast. I refuse to glamorize my lifestyle, traveling is beautiful, but i would never call it freedom like most do. In order to travel you have to give up the idea that you’ll always have a place to call home, because every time you do return home, it’s never the same, you’re friends will all be strangers, some will love you despite your absence. You’ll miss weddings, birthdays, births,the time your dear friend got a life saving liver transplant, you will give up all of the little details, like doing dishes in a real sink, and closing the door to your bedroom. You will constantly feel like you don’t have enough space. This is the price of traveling and I can’t yet decide if it was a fair price or not.
I’m not so good at introductions or with explaining who or what I am. I just am. I’m not even sure what the point of this blog is, but I’m going to write anyway.
Stumbleweed 