There is this little weak part that keeps saying, “I feel neglected.” Awhile back now, sitting in the office of the man, the only man I truly strive to impress, he warned me about her. He shuffles papers while he speaks to me or laces his fingers together and sets them on the desk, meeting my eyes, so I can know this statement is the one above all the other ones in this conversation. He told me that the writer in me is a meek and selfish girl, that she is afraid and that we must above all else take care of her. She is like the princess trapped in my towering body. Having now met her, known her, loved her- I know he was right. I only have been truly getting to know her since I arrived in Boise. She only comes out when we are alone. We don’t work well with others. She loves the smell of coffee. She remains in love with ever man we ever loved and she holds onto our bits of broken heart and bad mistakes like tokens or proof of being alive. It’s hard work to quiet the rest of my mind and my life to listen, truly listen, to her. I don’t write here the way I write there. Maybe that was why I left in the first place. I can’t seem to tap the lines or see the words properly. I can’t sit down with her even with coffee. I miss her and feel more alone than when I am alone. While I love California, I find for the very first time, a part of me aching to return to Boise and write. I suppose there must be some mention of the passage of the old year and the arrival of this new one and what I will do- I will write.


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