Migrant Blogger

I found my blog at the bottom of her favorite links bar. I felt the craving in the pit of my stomach almost immediately. I was craving a small bit of anonymity. While, it can be argued that I could achieve the same thing by merely taking this off of the internet (public domain at large) but somehow this life of a renegade, of migrant blogging appeals. The ability to share something, anything. And, truth be told...if I know that she is reading my voice changes. I censor myself, draw things in. It's a semblance of control thing. So I migrated again. Verda was my grandmother, the matriarch of storytelling. As I was home two months ago, I remembered how I used to enjoy writing...and realized how I had lost my voice in the hustle and bustle of life. Throwing the gift passed on to me by the wayside. So here I am. Crossroads. Unsure of what is to come, unsure of where this is going. Relishing the excitement that comes with that -- will it be a critique? Will it be commentary? Will it be dreams? Will it be dreamy? Will is be something claimed, something realized? Only time will bear that fruit.