probably

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?