My life is a regular practice of trying to figure out what to pull closer and what to let go of. Push away, even.
What I do know is that there's been a recent swelling of words that I cannot stop. Something in me that's wiggling into form. A hand trying to keep up with my thoughts. Digital notes deciphered later. I feel helpless to it. Overcome. Like something I have only to remain patient for but keeps me in an alert, restless state.
"I might be a writer someday," I tell him, testing the weight of the words against the hollow of my hope.
"Probably," he says, without hesitation.
So it is.
I wonder what it would mean for me to surrender to it entirely. Am I ready? Am I worthy? Does anything I do mean anything, actually? At what cost?
