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It has been dry here. Not exactly cracked-parched earth dry, but the grass might disagree with me if it were at all capable of such a thing. The weeds remain, persistent, splashes of green peppering the withered brown lawn tendrils.

Last night I had trouble finding sleep. I've all this internal unrest pushing its way outward at all the most inconvenient times. Except now, really, when I can't seem to mind at all. I am staying at my parents for a while this month, in this room that is all mine in the tallest part of the house. My peculiar seussian attempts at capturing trees on canvas still adorn the walls, just as I left them years ago. I love this room. It is comfort, it is me, before I lost myself a little more than I ever meant to. Every time I come back, I find that I am still here. Relief.

And it is raining. The soul-drenching, sky-darkening sort that brings heavy clouds to swallow up the sunrise, the morning. I've barely slept but it feels like it was all meant for me, this half-awake marvelling at life and the universe. I'll take it, selfishly, bleary-eyes and all. It is the sound I love most, I think, a blanket of gentle droplets along the rooftop until they are constant, a warm thrum of sorts. This scrawling my thoughts in a disorganized manner by lamplight with too many hyphens (because all the words seem to blur together in my head, just now). The wind is having its way with the rain now, tossing it aggressively against the window panes.

I have had these moments, lately, where all of these humans I have loved and really known creep into my being. They float around inside this shell of a human I have become and they fill me up, poke their way into the spaces they all have left. Into the places I had pushed them out of these last years, when the emptiness felt easier somehow.

I have always wished that I could write, really write, anything. This is the first time in ages that I have felt at all compelled to take anything out of my head in even a semi-permanent way. I suppose because all that comes out of this crooked brain are words that have been spilled a hundred times, more, from far weightier ghosts than I could ever hope to conjure..