I have a dresser by my bed whose drawers are stuffed to the brim with penned duodenal purges.  Journals, loose papers, napkins, receipts...endless planes where I have phlebotomized my soul through my words lie stacked, crumpled, shoved and stifled within its darkened and twisted abdominals. Even more so lie dormant in endless sketchbooks, notebooks, idea pads and outlines under my bed, in suitcases and bags and bottlenecked in my veins and my sinuses. In my constant search for home, I have established, with Hubby, a space where we feel comfortable living, and where we are able to grow as a unit and invite others into our world. It is a warm, homey, cozy space that I am grateful for. However, I have forgotten to provide shelter for my growing passion - I have forgone the most important part of my process, the way in which I release. I have not invited my writing into my home, and thus, it must sneak in and live as a stowaway, an afterthought in the deep crevices of my bedroom.

Perhaps, this is not the living situation in which I will create the space for my passion and my writing to blossom.

Perhaps, It is what it is.

I have heard this statement so many times throughout

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