Time Waster Within Processing

Writing is the process where the results don’t matter. For me, the process is the most important thing. In this process, I find myself. I feel like my truest self writing. Collecting my thoughts and putting them through a strainer to cut to an emotional core of shared feelings.

This emotional need is a surprise but who can really define an emotional need? Don’t emotions change with growth? Yet, nothing changes. We all call it growth but no one really pans out into something better. Usually, it’s the same story of a grandparent we all never really knew that well. It’s history reluctantly repeating itself.

Leaving my phone unattended is purposeful. Maybe it’s a harkening to a time when I didn’t need one. Picking up tiny rocks and hitting them with a plastic bat in the backyard. Going outside was playtime. Exploring was childhood. Throwing dirt clods at wasp nests, catching grasshoppers, finding frogs leaping into a creek that always smelled like a swamp with a thin layer of oil on the top of the water. The smell was always rainwater but it was as if the land was already polluted before the housing was in the neighborhood.

Clinging to Medium is a weird thought. I get that when something becomes your focus, you devote time to it but what is quality anyway? Storytelling with a purpose. Writing for a hidden expression is practice only.

Life is its own miniseries creating conflict after days of reckoning over missed calls purposely ignored. Then court reaches out to confirm a denial pushed…