My life used to be normal.
Then I started writing.
It was never the same after that.
My home used to be clean. My yard looked (a little) better. I organized and accomplished many projects. I walked by people without caring what their story might be.
Now my house is in peril of being over run by dust bunnies and dog and cat hair tumbleweeds. Moles and ground ivy have settled comfortably in my yard. I can barely hold one thought in my head before another over takes it.
And when I see someone, nearly anyone, I can no longer ignore them. I wonder about them. Sometimes, I think I might even care about them.
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