Who the Fuck Am I? (And Other Moments of Existential Dread)

I am no one and I am everyone.

On the surface, it may seem quite simple. Mid-forties, one grown child, three cats; residing somewhere in Witch Country, New England. History & genealogy nerd, among other things. Sad tale. No, not really. I kind of love my life most of the time…or at least the concept of it…even when shit looks sideways and chaos tornados blow through. Sometimes it’s just about appreciating shit, making meaning out of a moment.

I’ve always been curious and of varied interests, hard to pin down and flying by the seat of my pants. I’m a lot of things, really. Aren’t we all?

There are few consistencies in a whirlwind of wildfire.

I’ve lived a thousand lives and collected many more stories. I’ve poured over book after book, text after text, article after article…oscillating between artificial tears and eyes tearing from overuse…I read until the library closed…with a flashlight under a blanket in the middle of the night… Then my boots hit the ground and I experienced all of the glory and horror of life in an instant. I was raised by lions and thrown to the wolves.

Nothing makes sense.

And so I’ll write. I’ll freeze a moment in time. I’ll take my every desire to destroy and instead choose to create.