Half & Half Creamer

Day 1:

The urge to pick up a pen.

Hello, old friend.

The days are spinning again or are they really different and new?

A song in my head, the birds fly carefully, and I know that it’s time to hold on, let go, and set free.

He is irritable, grumpy, madness. Not the good kind of madness, but one I can definitely cope with in my many pages. I haven’t figured yet if he was chapter one, two, or three.

Pen doesn’t want to write anymore, but it was nice to stop and visit.

Love, Amy

Day 2:

I’m at the coffee shop, and my pen in my hand again. I’m stirring. I feel like out-of-control Dorian. Like her, the storm of my path only stays in one location. I need it, whatever this swirl is, to pick up, let go, and move. I’m unsettled. I’m not content. I’m too still. I’m a mover. I want to go.

I want to reach out to him, but why? No, he can reach out to me. I reached out to my old neighbor with no response again. Eh, changes happen, life strands, but really, we are all big girls and boys. Now however, my little birds are flying with their wings at different heights and then there’s that yellow slow, “behind” one. Deep breaths… that’s a whole other sheet of paper.

I’ve always wanted to write, constantly spilling my mind on the lines of paper. Here, I’ve run out of space, all out of lines. It was nice to stop and visit again, though.

Love, Amy

Day 3:

I’m jotting down everything in my mind while I sit at this old wooden desk. The days are making sense. I’m getting the plural of half, because that is exactly what I’m doing: severing pieces into halves.

I am half-ing; I feel everything.

Images of a knife, pizza cutter, eyes, and words. They can all cut objects in half.

On a lighter note, I am a fan of half & half in my coffee, but right now I am not a fan of having half of anything.

My job: Half-assed.

My career: What career? Not even close to feeling half-accomplished.

My living situation: The unexpected? It’s only half there.

My parents: Just half-parents. Thank you, Mom.

I went somewhere in my dream last night where I was happy. The feelings were intensely real,  but that was just a dream.

Only part of my conscience.

Only half again.

Until next time.

Love, 1/2 of me 

Amy Scott

Born in Atlantic City NJ, and raised in NEPA. Forever a lover of sand and ocean, but would escape to the woods and a cabin. Fan of traveling, small coffee shops, real feels and deep conversations. A girl that will throw the car in reverse to photograph something that catches her eye. Continuing to find herself even at 40. Amy holds the first four year college degree in her family history. A mother of two daughters who come first. Photographer of family and abstract. Writer of life pieces and poetry. Passionate in inspiring others to always find the positive.

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