writing class is awesome.
scripting
short story.ing
living
breathing
being
beating

uncertain of any THING.

but glad to know i am.
try.ing.

magnolia almost 2. weird. sense of growth i can't fathom.
her evolution so dramatic to my own.

i wasn't done.
that's not unfamiliar.
when am i done with anything.
i have strings attached to a thousand little things
that i can't forget.
and i just want to go home again.

writing a letter i'll never send, to reread in 20 years and feel it all again...
walk away on goodbye. callous is easier. to make it hurt makes the healing work.
you can't heal if you cant hurt.
right?

it occurred to me after a few backspaces that i start a lot of things i write with "listening to....." - and i always knew i write the most when pushed by the drawl of voices that have liquored me . . . kept me safe.... dirtied me.... narrated a portion, if not all, of my life.

if i had a memory i'd be able to tell what author i just read about saying he couldn't write when listening to music with lyrics... those words evaded his.... and i think he's right. but then do i not write? im inspired by hearing them- i can't shut them out. they deliver me onto something bigger.