My life depends on this – the writing. The story. MY reaction to the shift, to others and how they blame and complain and blare and talk and in their narcissistic tics and fit are unafraid to voice convenient “truths”.
Staying here at the Villa with Fig and Oliver, feline and canine respective, was one of the more altering and seemingly simplistic elections I’ve paginated. Do I go out or not, get out of the house or no… and my vote was NO.
Petit nosh right before 17:00, small glass of Chardonnay, Sonoma County. My peace is proverbial and instructive. MY reality…
MY Now, my Truth.
Oliver asleep on the floor. Possibly from boredom. I’m not a dog’s best friend, and I feel horrible. Fighting for that scene, which I won’t articulate here. But, the plane rides, the first day and signing the lines. All of it.
EVERYTHING, I want for the family, and a bit me.
Notes in my phone, and old social media posts, oh my god. Teaching me so much about me, and bas decisions. Why didn’t I speak up?
We’ll, I’m speaking now. And no force or border or “boundary” can silence me.