Blaaahg-tober.

Self-portrait of the author in a car's sideview mirror, zooming past fields and oak trees.

I turned 38.5 five days ago. Five days is the length of a Gmail nudge. That doesn’t matter, and neither does anything else anymore.

That’s my fault, of course. And that’s why I’m here. At “Blogtober,” a word I can barely type without twitching involuntarily.

I’m forcing myself to write here every day because I’ve… I don’t know, really. Lost my joie de vivre? Cracked my inner compass? Become trapped in amber?

I’m typing this as I look out my front window at the Pacific, so life is better than I probably deserve. But somewhere along the way, I wandered off the path, lured by things that are easy, not brave.

Sometimes you go so far off the path, and for so long, that you forget what the path even looks like.

That’s where Blogtober *twitch* comes in. The only remedy I’ve ever known for a glitchy inner GPS is words. For me, writing is a form of active meditation—a way to build up an inner witness persona and give structure to scattered, anxiety-driven thoughts.

In essence, I’m writing my way back to myself.

I can’t promise that whatever is posted here won’t be terrible or trite. It probably will be because I’ve let my creative muscles atrophy. But if you’re lost, too, you can travel along with me and maybe we’ll find the path together.

(I’ll try not to bore you too much, I swear.)

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