We need each other. This pandemic, oddly enough, has made that fact screamingly obvious.
Today, for now, I'm okay enough.
When people have dementia, eventually you have to lie to them.
Rage doesn't help. Sorrow doesn't, either. Both reactions are appropriate.
I guess the story arc I'm writing is just...life.
I thought about making my own header image, but I happened upon this one, and I have a cube thing, so here we are.
It wears you down, doesn't it? Little things you didn't even know you valued.
If I want to be able to draw the way I draw in my head, I'll draw the damn circles.
It always comes back to the personal, doesn't it?
I've learned that dreams can cripple you. But maybe only if you let them.