I was in the middle of Alabama, silhouette illuminated by the golden hour’s subtle sunlight, engrossed in a conversation with my cousin, just catching up.
He’d asked me if I was any better, and I’d told him that “at least I know my triggers now.”
Imagine yourself in a room full of balloons in a variety of colors, all with little white string.
Each balloon is an event; a lunch with friends, a family reunion, a party, a date.
You try to be attentive and pick up a balloon, only to have it pop in your unsuspecting hands.