I haven't blogged in quite some time. Ah, how many blog posts have I started out with such a similar sentence?
Blogging is strange to me. I feel vain when I type in this small box and then click the "Publish" button with the belief that someone will find my inner thoughts interesting.
Tonight though I write for myself. Words are my comfort. They're a warm blanket I can pull around my shoulders when I have no one to offer a hug. A friend gave me a strange look when I admitted that sometimes I leave books in my bed while I sleep. The sturdy rectangles are a constant presence that offer comfort. When you move as much as I do, you have to find wholeness without the constant of others. Words are just one small way I remind myself of who I am, one way I find comfort on lonely nights far away from loved ones.
The main reason I'm typing this entry is to feel my fingers on the keys, hear the clacking of keys. We find comfort where we can.
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