Letter
Once made comment when in early stage of corresponding about reaching a certain destinations.
Friends have been pushing me over past 3 decades to write a book. And my response has always been the same:
“About what?”
But they persisted.
They wouldn’t budge.
Eventually, those reflections transitioned into a mantra—the invisible tattoo on my spine. My ex harangued—still does—for years to write a book. The subject of that book was universally agreed upon. Yeah, I knew I could.
Had an issue with the labyrinth though. Way too many perspectives, filled with way too many holes, to choose from. Like I’m gonna sit around, surrounded by piles of blank pages, and meticulously evaluate each perspective? No way.
(Yawn)
Mulch? Okay
Had no interest in those halls, so I ignored them. But those others insisted they saw light whereas none was as bright to me as they were to those others. The holes weren’t white. They holes weren’t black, or any colored holes.
I slumped into a comfy chair, chewed my favorite flavor of bubblegum—Heaven of Indifference — stared into space, blowing the best bubbles ever.
Those holes, however, did have structure. They were concrete. House frames—which explains why the halls were empty and the walls were blank.
So this is what I have to say—
Yeah, I know I can.
Maybe I will.
Maybe I never will.
And I’m okay with that.
