I’m tired.

I’m tired of pouring my heart out once a week. I’m tired of being vulnerable with every post. Why can’t something I write be what I really want as opposed to what I really need?

Why am I not being the culture writer that I’d like to be?

Instead, I’m writing as if this is my diary.

damn….

You said that one day my story will be used to help others. That’s the reason for all the pain. The reason for all the times I touched the stove because I needed to see if it was hot. The experiences….

So what’s next? A memoir? Who wants to listen to me though? Who am I? Why would anyone buy it?

Is this the clarity I prayed for? The purpose? Man, you work quick. So show me how. Open those doors. And windows. Focus my writing so that the final piece isn’t all over the place.

Unless that’s what it’s supposed to be…me. All over the place and often times messy. But has a purpose, a reason for being.

You really do have a weird sense of humor. I suppose that’s who I get it from.

I need your help. I’m finally admitting it. I cannot do this alone.

Here goes nothing, I guess…

You promise to make sure I don’t fall too hard?