The fountain pens insist, you see, that I write with them, and abandon this typing business. Now I have short journal notes written on random pieces of paper. These notes are not compiled in any organized way; they have accreted on my desk like barnacles or needy acquaintances.
I’ll be 37 in a couple of days.
I’ll be 37 in a couple of days.
Your life-so-far can descend upon you like debris, or confetti. Decisions you’ve made, or refused to make, or were made for you, are markers that stand on the borders of your land, whose topography shifts when you’re not looking. The country of your soul contracts, smaller and smaller yet, until your feet have no
room to move except down.
Or you could grow wings. Or strap rockets to your soles.
Here’s my rocket.
