I fold that thin, old page I used to practice on and pick up another. This one is maybe 6 x 8 1/2 and has writing on both sides; the words on the back competing with the small print that was already there, a copyright notice from an article long forgotten.
Round 2. I’m thinking of… (10 min)
I’m thinking of how I will store these pages. Should they be in a binder with all my other jovenish attempts to write – perhaps with the sketchbook in which I tried to learn to draw. I’m thinking that I didn’t start on time – this isn’t clean, starting at a 10 minute point – something recognizable on the clock. A big black mark saying start here. I was late. Or was I early? I missed 12, should I have waited until 12:05? I’m thinking of how many times I’ve set ambitious goals that haven’t come to fruition. How many times I latch onto an idea & just can’t let it go until someone tickles me, I drop it & I latch onto something else. Is that all writing is for me? I’ve latched onto it & dropped it and looked at the broken dream scattered on the floor and picked it up only to mend it, run towards & with it just to drop it again. Do I deserve this job – this mission to let the world know what I’ve been thinking. Does the world deserve to know? I’m thinking that to write has been my only consistant hope & because I’ve let go of it, tried to pretend it wasn’t there, because I satisfy my need to write by filling blank books with items for my mind only and then hoping another will break cultural and acceptable norms to pry into my private thoughts & validate them. I’m thinking that this is what I need to do because hope deferred makes the heart sick but I was made to be well. I was made to run – even if its just my hand running ink across a blank page.
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