Word vomit, probably.

This is just my own speculation, but it must be pretty terrifying to be living in your body when your brain isn’t working properly anymore.

I’ve watched her give up (prematurely) on telling me a story because she realized she’s going to have too much trouble recalling the words that she’ll need to verbally sketch out an effective picture to get her point across.

I haven’t really found my home in any of the group classes. I still feel out of place and out of sorts. All levels yoga was just a lot of laying on a mat with my eyes closed. I’d prefer a little less time alone with my thoughts.

We’d kinda planned that we’d have some space of our own by now. But the Airbnb didn’t work out. From the start the whole ordeal felt like nudging a boulder toward higher ground. Wrong unit. Still uncleaned from previous guests. Flooded bathroom. A nest of angry wasps that made quick work of my exposed skin and continued their attack up my pant legs and sleeves.

I can’t shut up about the mangoes. Maybe that’ll just scare the cancer from his body.

In the early days, I wrote these little missives to friends. Naive and simplistic? Maybe.