This is the first post in several years. I’ve started and then erased these lines so many times that every new sentence feels contrived. The feelings I’m left with rush through the head and sit deep in the gut. They don’t come accompanied by words; just memories of having formed thoughts into words. I’m left with writings that could have been: potential stories about two very important years in my life.
I might have written about falling in love. A small boat being thrashed by the salty waves finds a temperate island and stays. Two amorphous shapes bind, expand, and glow. Water touches paper.
Or, I would have liked to write about an inability to communicate and understand. A heroic dream that ends from the perspective of the defeated. A stream of consciousness written in twenty nonstop minutes on The Most Dangerous Writing App. A post about unwritten posts.
My thoughts on ambition.
And meditation. Working part time from home and spending the rest living a life. I cooked so many delicious meals my mouth is drooling at the abstract idea of remembering having cooked so many delicious meals.