There's something so intimidating about a blank page. Maybe it's because our lives are so noisy. This blank page is very empty and all at once I knew how to fill it...until it appeared here, empty and without format.
I came here to be vulnerable. But I'm not sure if I can. I want to download my brain onto the page and say: "See, this is why I make sense!" That is terrifying. What if no one understands? That is a notion that has kept me quiet in life for, essentially, all of it. My whole life has been spent reflecting or parroting and it's not even working for me. The investment of years come to what?
I wonder if this is really the time. Many other times, I've sat down thinking I would write my story. My Story. The thing that shakes me from committing to the writing for more than one brilliant session.
My story? I don't have just one, and so many of them aren't over. Nobody is just one note and, in fact, is anyone's story ever really over? In time to write it and package it and give it a jaunty title, that is. If you're lucky, they get your epitaph just right- poetic, symbolic, concise.
My story is threads, tangents. They all flutter and grow or twist. None of them have tidy ends, just split ends and wisps like Tibetan prayer flags. They are sometimes whipping in the wind and sometimes still as glass. They fade and fly and move and they never give up, not even when there is one fiber left, it clings to the string and when it lets go... it flies to another life.
Still, I am inspired so often to write. More often lately. So I won't wait for my stories to have tidy ending or clean plots, but will barrel headfirst into telling them.
I am here.
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