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“A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.”
I write about gaps a lot but I rarely about jumping into one.
there is always a veil that I put between myself and reality as if one were not the same. As if there was some magical force keeping me from me. There is none of those things. Just the refusal of my own self to come inside and claim what already belongs to me.
I am tired of writing stories of longing. Longing has become an noose. An excuse. And I am ready to throw it off
I am laying this theme bare.
Life is more than words but words can color experiences and expressions with a hard hand.
I am taking the shoe of my own opposition off.
No… it’s not a one and done, sort of thing. It never is but do I need the constant reminder. The constant craving towards an ideal that is always in flux. It’s time to just let that story go.
I come here to this life. This pulsing being in time. Ready. Willing.
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“We live in all we seek.”
Stretching.
Making. Unmaking.
Unmade.
Open to
Remaking
And reclaiming
my own narrative.
Not as something far away and lacking.
Not as something I need to swim to or from
But as the bloodline I already live.
The life I already eat.