My television is broken.
Not that I watch a lot of TV, but sometimes in the evenings I like to snuggle up with my Paris Woolen Mill blanket (THAT is a story for another day!), some tea, a roaring fire, and binge watch. But with a broken television, I've had to rethink this ritual.
Lately I've just taken to my bed (with another Paris Woolen Mill blanket--part of that same story) in the evenings that I'm alone, still with some tea, and read a book or write. I can only write when I'm by myself. My brain doesn't multitask well these days. Ahem.
But those thoughts were just little niggling barbs and I wrote with honesty and transparency, damn it all anyway.
I've never been a particularly private person. I don't have much to hide. I can't lie very well either. So being an open book comes easily for me. You know when you meet someone for the first time and they end up sharing their entire life's story with you? Yeah, well, that's usually me. I think I'm motivated to do this by attempting to forge connections through commonalities. Who doesn't love a little solidarity, right?
Lately, though, I'm not feeling so candid. Not here in this space and not so much outside of here either.
I want to keep the good things in my life to myself, hold them close but still with open hands. I don't want prying eyes and judging mouths to get close enough to damage or mar what I hold. There is a fierce sense of protection that I feel for my privacy now. I don't want to fret over whether I've offended someone or caused unwarranted concern for my well being or sanity. And really, I just don't feel the need to communicate much these days.
Quiet. Peaceful. Simple.
Yes, simple is what I'll write about soon.
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