That awful feeling when…

…you write about 3 pages of an essay and practically hate it all. 

Currently shifting through lots of messy emotions in my heart. The ones surfacing quickest are relationship pains. Like growing pains, their dull ache distracts from all thoughts of clarity or rationality; the worst. Coupled with those are the emotions of mourning; I’m mourning the death of home. My family moved over the summer, I live in Ohio- they in South Carolina. 

I’ve never seen the house my family lives in.

“That would make a brilliant opening sentence.” -Dr. Heath, my professor.

Well, that’s the hard part. Whenever I write about what pains me right here and now I am forced to make this angst into beauty. I have to just tell my fingers to type the most honest sentences I can conjure up because I can’t make this eloquent- it has to be the truth from my heart to the page that makes this writing process, this story telling anything beautiful at all. It is truly an exhausting, tiring, yet carthardic process for me. What will I call this essay? What will the last sentence in the piece feel like? ..because if I’m crying about this subject matter, my reader ought to cry with me {I think Frost had something to say about that}. I want to capture everything about the moments of the last day in my house in Delaware, I want to capture all there is to be said about understanding the difference between a “house” and a “home,” I want to pin the heart of my reader with the reality that I will never have a familiar threshold to cross, front porch to sit on, bedroom to dwell in, dining room to laugh in, kitchen to dance in.

Home has died.
Melodramatic? Sorry, I’m processing this as I write and compose this essay. 

And if I hear one more song that even implies, “Home is wherever I’m with you” I will burst.

Yet, that “bursting” is the stuff of good writing. Right? Anyway. 

Wish me luck on this endeavor. {And wish me luck when I see this “new” house next week}


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