My house is clean. My brain is empty. I spend an entire Sunday not speaking to anyone. It rains and I’m bored, unable to write or focus on a book or do anything remotely productive.
We ran and ran until we couldn’t run anymore, until our issues were too loud for granite countertops to fix.
When Emily Dickinson writes about beauty, I see home.
I assumed, like so many others, that home was a physical destination and that its existence did not require my participation.
Colorado – this land – represents many, if not all, of the things that I strive to be.
“Daughter of Appalachia” is a title that I have worn proudly my entire life.
People who can’t simply swap out a roll of toilet paper and expect you to do it for them.
I’ve learned to adapt to the emptiness at home, and am trying to be stronger and more independent.
There was so much noise. And lights. It was all blinding me.
You actually begin to miss that over-priced, over-crowded, mediocre pub you and your friends spent every weekend at