How can even 200 words slip through my fingers like slithy toves?

These past few months, I’ve wanted to return to writing about asexuality—had many thoughts, but struggled to disentangle them, make them digestible enough for this format. 

In truth, I’m bored of blogging. Genre feels like a cage. 

I’m pacing, alive with ambitious ideas, alone and undistracted by the constraints of cohabitation for the first time in a decade. Last summer, I broke up with my queerplatonic partner. If you’re about to take that as distressing news, don’t. It was for the best for both of us; we remain friends. All things come to an end eventually, and I am more concerned with beginnings now.

Once more, I am forging my path without a map, on unfamiliar ground. I have no idea where it will lead, but I create it as I go—one step at a time, listening for a guiding inner voice.

Words are hard, but I’m writing them. One day, I hope to collect them and present them to you.

In the meantime, you may not see me around much. But please rest assured that I am still here underground, digging out a new foundation.