I’ll be honest. I was working toward bolstering my courage, but I didn’t really think I’d feel much different after declaring myself a writer. I was wrong.
Am I terrible at routine? Or do I just have no interest in it?
Sometimes, I think I’m having an identity crisis, but when the dust clears, it always turns out I’m just getting better at being who I’ve always been.
Here I stand, at the edge of this ocean inside, staring down at words that curl and rush–reaching for my bare toes. I’ve hesitated long enough; I’m going in.
I said too much. Because if I’d said nothing at all, I would’ve never felt like I didn’t say enough.
My heart is open, spilled like warm, flat soda in the parking lot. It will evaporate eventually. The rain will come and wash the rest away. And no one will know it was here.
He begged me to put my faith in him-all that was left were shattered remains of a tattered hope. I handed them over and watched them so slowly turn to doves in his palm . . . do you know how many years? . . . how much energy and patience? . . . it takes to turn pain into doves?
I may slow down here and there, but I’m never turning back.