Someone wanted to check on me, today. It made me think of having my forehead felt when I was sick as a kid. Just a flat palm, that’s all. Just checking. I guess it’s just nice to feel someone’s cool hand reaching for you when your mind has been on fire. Anyway, I’ve been so steadily trudging across my life lately that I hadn’t paid much attention to my writing, other than to make sure that I do it, daily. I didn’t stop to think how it might appear, but the truth is I’m sensing some sort of inverse principle dominating my consciousness right now. The great revelation is that I think (I think) I am the happiest I have been lately, on the inside. Uncircumstantially, I am so fine because the more I write the more I let go of the less I carry around the happier I am. I think. I wrote down every snag in my would-have-been romance, and because of it, I don’t feel pain. I’m not embarrassed, and I don’t cringe when I think about it. I don’t understand why that is—he still held me up while I lost my shit in our hostess/best friend’s garbage can, regardless of whether I wrote about it afterward. But I don’t care! It’s gone. I wrote it and floated it away. And maybe this is liberating. Maybe, with the guarantee of shame written-off, I’ll grow a little more adventurous. Maybe this is an opportunity. See? I told you I was happy. Sometimes I go online and look at dogs, though. Because I can’t wait ‘till I can have someone to love me always in my life again.
THE RAVEN AND THE WRITING DESK
I haven't the slightest idea, said the Hatter.
