Beauty Walks a Razor's Edge, Someday I'll Make it Mine.

The time has come, it seems, for me to end this chapter of catharsis. I’ve been spending more time feeling bad about neglecting my writing than I have benefiting from it, so I’ve decided to eliminate the seemingly arbitrary pattern between tending toward and tending against pouring it all out here. I’ve been pulled through the portal and I’m in a very different place. Mostly happy — it’s funny how the nature of a normal day is the first memory to fade, leaving me with little to carry on about — and while there is still so much for me to do in terms of recovery, I’ve decided to regard experience itself as my souvenir. I think that in asking myself whether all this sorrow was my fault, I had to spend too much time going backwards. It might even be possible that I was asking the wrong question. I’m tired of thrashing between exoneration and blame. At the end of the day, I still have no idea, and that ignorance has become, itself, a kind of solace. The truth is, if I decided that I was right or wrong, what difference would it make?

It's a dangerous mission. You
could die out there. You
could live forever. — T.G.

Thanks for reading, writing, listening.

om shanti,
Lisa