Vanity Card #12

It's that time of my life when my friends are my family. I keep typing a sentence and then immediately pressing the backspace button. This is free form prose. The purpose of a vanity card is to speak freely and passionately. I am not short of words or ideas. I hop on the word document to make sense of my life. Perhaps picking things apart will provide clarity on the things that make me feel but don't make logical sense. Suddenly my problems don't seem so dramatic or poetic. And then what ends up on this drafting page appears more disorganized than the mess in my head. It's troubling as a writer. The threads are supposed to weave harmoniously once the words reach the white space. Today I left work early because I felt I was reliving a traumatic experience. I walked through the parking lot and the sun wrapped me in motherly warmth, except my face was soaked and I could barely see. What beautiful weather for such a shitty day. I opened my journal once I got home and realized I hadn't written in days. It's no wonder I feel wound up and sensitive. Isn't it funny how we chose what is wrong with is? What's wrong could be something we'd never consider, an unexplored symptom? The tears have dried and left a thin film on my skin. The first line of this vanity card is essentially the log line for the TV show Friends. Nothing can stop the thoughts, rational or not, to enter and leave my mind. However, I could look back on this day, on this vanity card, and find that my real problem sits in the subtext of it all. Maybe then will I forgive myself for writing like a child looking for a lost toy.