It’s been more than 50 days since my last post about waiting and I’m still —
Waiting through the last leaf and the first snow fall, the seconds of day light fading gradually into darkness as I finally let go —
Begin to fall and then try to stop myself. Grasp at anything. At nothing. Until I let go again. And again.
Accepting, out of desperation, this state of groundlessness. No floor. No ceiling. No point of reference. Or context.
Oh god, a writer without context. A strategist without a plan.
I think —
I am nothing.
And at the same time — I think —
I could be —
On the longest night of the year —
I am —