Sometimes my hands ache, full of words for a page. I see the ending. It’s me, I’m old, I’ve lived partially not fully like some. Enough. I’ve helped animals, taken care of my husband, listened to people’s problems. Made a mark nowhere but in the immediate landscape. Broader strokes, that’s where I feel that I’ve failed. There is potential to be known, to be respected but the fear abates. Fear of being that certain kind of honest that it takes to make it. The honest words that ache for the page. The one’s I’m afraid to write. The one’s I’m afraid they will read. I think of the old days. The early 90’s when everything seemed so impossible and possible. Every second felt like it could be the best one or the end. The insecurity of wondering if anyone would ever love me, be there for me, appreciate my soul and the kindness that I have to give. I have that now and don’t appreciate it like I thought I would back then. Now it’s more of a yearning for those years of uncertainty. I watch movies now as a middle aged adult, flicks about young people that are still trying to figure it all out and I envy them more than I could ever imagine I would have. The time they still have, that I’ve let fleet into the sky with the dreams of a 21 year old chick who thought she would achieve something more than this. A cubicle rat. There is still time. There is still time. I have talent but for some reason I push it away. Do I love to write? Sometimes. Like all things. Sometimes. I just want to be alive all the way again. Not in the sense that I was in that time, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to die so I did the craziest shit I could think of to see if that would indeed be the end result. Today I want to live as long as I can without any assistance in wiping my ass or walking around. To be relevant to those I admire and to those dumbass kids like myself looking for some sort of inspiration in an older person who seems to have an answer or more.
Create, freedom, create, live, beauty. I can be those things. I can. I must.