My body is beginning to feel like a worn jacket, showing an expected modicum of wear and tear, but, at the same time becoming comfortable in a shabby broken-in kind of way. I don’t mind. It has gotten me this far. I never thought my spirit would stay in it, honestly. I made the turn on the track a few years ago, and now I am heading towards the backstretch. No finish line in sight quite yet. It’s still far enough away that I don’t feel I need to “get my affairs in order.”
What is welling up inside me though, are the stories. They just drop themselves in, with no announcement, memories, crystal clear at times. They grasp my hands and implore me to write them. They fill my head in such complete blocks that there is no searching for this way or that, but just rather succumb to full-out hands sprint down the page. Sometimes even the ink can’t keep up.
So I give myself over to the dreams, stories, recollections, and memories. Maybe this is what I was meant to do all along.