I did it. I made it through another March alive. A few pounds heavier, but alive. I never know with March. It’s become the month I dread, so I race through it with my eyes closed, hoping that April will catch me before I fall off a cliff.

Now here we are. I’m taking a minute to breathe and to think. What’s next? Do I pick a new form and keep writing? Do I wait for inspiration to strike? I suspect that I still need the structure of a form to play with, even though my attempts to follow one this morning have’t gone well.

I have excuses. Of course I do. Life itself is an excuse not to write, but it’s also the impetus that insists I must. And writing is often the one tether connecting me to life. Without it who would I be? How would I know what I think? or feel?

I don’t recognize the me living this life I’ve created for my adult self. I’ve left behind all the things that once defined me. Except writing. That’s been with me since childhood. This blog, though, this has been different. Every day I fear I’ve reached the end, and there’s nothing new to uncover. I’m still uneasy sharing what I write.

I write for myself. To explore myself. To create my self. Yet, at the same time, I want applause, like I used to get reciting other people’s words on stage, pretending to be someone I’m not. Maybe I haven’t left all of myself behind after all.