I want to fall off the map. But anymore – is there a place unmapped? An unknown number called me yesterday and I plugged it into Facebook and there she was – my old landlord. She left a long 2 minute message of her breathing, clearly a butt dial, but why did she still have my phone number? And why is it so easy to find people you are no longer connected to? For the love, please don’t put your phone number on Facebook! How scary is that?!
I’m feeling some postpartum depression. Sounds ridiculous, but after 4 years of writing some of these poems (some are even from 6 or more years ago), I’m not sure where it leaves me now. I’m not sure what to do or what I want. I’m not sure where I’m going or why. When I moved here it was so clear, even the months leading to our exodus West. It was the goal. And now that we are here – what are we supposed to do? Where is the next fork? Where will we end up? Good lord, will I ever be settled anywhere? I have such wanderlust and no roots.
I’m worried about the manuscript. If it will mean anything to anyone except me. If it will even get anywhere. If it’s another first attempt to fall flat on its face. I’m also terrified that people will laugh at me for trying to write poetry.
What do I need to do for myself to feel internally legitimate? I mean fuck what everyone else says at the end of the day – what do I need to do for myself?

Anyway, I’m going forward anyway with the work which has to mean something. I realize there are always going to be people better than me. There are always going to be people worse than me and I will forever be stuck in the middle of something.

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