There are many things in my life right that I am waiting to watch grow out.
We are on the precipice of a new era of journalism, and it is our responsibility, as people with privilege and/or power, to usher it in gracefully.
A whole post written on a treadmill.
“Those old notebooks (plural because, I guess if we’re being honest, there’s also the dream journal I haven’t really done much with; and then that nature / prose book I was going to do little watercolors in) represented a past self. A WORSE self.”
2018 was fucking crazy.
Our baby chick died. That is part of life. Coming back to life is not normally part of life; so what does one do when it is?