We're having fog up here as well

Yep. Persistent fog. It dampens, past

the skin, perspiration, permeates the brain

We forget things too, time, we waste aways

but what am I saying? pls forgive me, I get it

in Limbo these things aren't the issue...

That raised me.

A shitty spring, to a farmer that wants to sell manure is a wonderful crick in words. Rough and tumble, unpredictable, late, early, she comes when she wants. A perfect woman shoehorned out of womanhood. She'd tell me if she wanted me to say more about her - be careful, she may be just around the corner. Or, acres down the way, she runs on her own time.

A blazing summer to a farmer that wants to grow pot is a catch-22. The heat laze combined with the green haze combined with the warmth of summer days means the advertising of summer activities is misleading; summer is for resting. A lazy, perfect woman, allowed womanhood on a technicality. What a lovely time and way of life, to toast everybody to perfection, hold them, warm them, love them gently.

Autumn after summer - I don't have a sibling born in fall, only one who was almost namesake'd the season. Mysterious woman - allowed as the blueprint. Nobody knows what she should have been, and in that, her personality blooms. Shhh - let her be silently unknown and known. It's what she wants. Start layering and covering up for the next, trial your fashions before the next season.

Winter. My best friend. A love hate relationship, as -22 can bite - the real activity season. Despite being ineffable during the entire rest of the year, we all love her for the contrast in temperature. Layers, hot chocolate, wasn't Christmas made to celebrate each other? Would you be more comfortable opening gifts with sweat dripping from your nose? A woman made by comparison - this one's the goat. She doesn't care for the scorn three fourths out of the year. She's only cold to drive people together. A sweet, shy, beautiful old woman who's more than happy to wait her turn.

I'm sorry, mom.

For all of the stupid things I do

that annoy you on a daily basis.

Biting my nails,

hugging you every five seconds,

talking your ear off;

I'm sorry.

And for the days when I feel like

no one loves me,

the days I doubt your heart;

I'm so sorry.

And I don't treat you badly on purpose,

I love you,

more than I show it.

I just have days when it feels like

the whole world is against me-

it's not your fault though.

If I'm having a bad day,

please don't assume it's your fault.

And if I don't make it as far in life

as you have,

it doesn't reflect on you-

I don't blame you for any of it.

Just know that I love you,

mom,

for everything you've sacrificed for me over the years,

and all the troubles you've gotten me out of.

I am eternally grateful.

Thank you.

I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.

I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"

There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.

Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.

Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?

I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.

I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.

I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.

I am not a mother yet, not by a long shot. I shall be an amazing aunt long before I have my own children, however in the interim as I am, I would like to dedicate this to my child.

I am your mother. I am not good, no, but you are the best parts of me- within the cracks in my foundation you have seeked to nurture. Those cracks have long been filled by the brilliance I know you shall bring this world, my son or daughter. And I thought I was above crying- I do not cry for anyone but those who eat alone and animals and even then it is jaunty.

I will make a million mistakes before you become of age, and further several million when you're able to detest me for them. But I will make this world good for you- our world. I cannot ensure the planet, nor the many people good and bad that inhabit it, but inside you will have me, and your other parent, and your loving uncles and cousins and grandma and great aunt and... god, the list is endless, isn't it? You will be born into the world with the endless amounts of support I feel myself welling in thought at.

I will anger you, hurt you, and you will likely hate me and wish you had any other mother at that time. And I understand. We come from strife, don't we darling? But I'll be around for you, when there's a nick on your finger or you simply long to come home.

I am your mother, your confidante, yours solely. You are half my heart and all of my soul.

my grandfather at 103

randy romanian

born with a hard-on for life

the women who passed near

even now nursing home housed

suffered endured smiled laughed

at his roaming hands up their skirts

down budging begging bosom blubber

to be harassed sagging nipples sucked up

violets popping through warm spring earth

made to quiver between raspy puckered lips

blue veined forefinger probing prodding

gooey gummy grimy earthwormed flesh

to resurrect a feeling flutter flickers flow

wheelchair tires entangled causing alarm

a victimless crime really yet the FBI lacking

those posing existential threats to the globe

took him away

spoon in hand

a gulp away from slurping savoring

a bowl of celebratory fish head soup

the sunset can be beautiful

the way the bike makes the world pass by - magical

captivation can grab you up and hold you tight

its not a forever captivation

not if the road ends, you tire, darkness falls

or potholes explode into the journey

all life is like this- something grabs you up and lifts you

until it does not

then you are just slammed to the ground with less time and more trust issues

skinned knees and bruised interest

cement charming

I've made a lot of noise on this website. Been here since 2018 or '19...? I can't remember. Let's go with '19 even if it may be '17 cos it feels like it might be right. What can I say? I want to be seen sometimes. When I scream out into the void, it's nice to imagine I am heard by someone. Sometimes, just as often, I don't want to be noticed at all. When I'm in the mood to share a bit, spill out, I come here. See if anything tickles my fancy. The challenges of this website have brought out some really real, really raw stuff from me. Reminded me of good and bad things. Bittersweet is the word I'd use cos that's what it tends to be. The website was there for me as my mind spiralled and when I left my old hell to a new, better university I'd like to call purgatory since it's in a more neutral plane of being. Writing helps me understand myself and I guess I'm tired of trying to make it pretty enough when I know for a fact this place gives you pretty free rein. I've written mostly sad things, sometimes genuinely good. My writing has gotten better. I'm able to explain my emotions rather well now. I entered this challenge cos I've been gone for a beat and honestly, seeing even more changes is something to adjust to. Yet I'm intrigued with what comes next. I tend to stick to what I'm familiar with so I'm not likely to look for another site any time soon... This will be a home for my random thoughts, memories and emotions for some unpredictable time to come.