I want to write, but my brain is stretched thin, like getting eight more cookies out of five cookies’ worth of dough. Like squeezing into that cheap-ass dress a size too small — the one with a price I couldn’t resist. Like the shoulder seams of my favorite t-shirt, held together less by thread than by sheer act of will. Like being nearly out of wrapping paper, but two inches of exposed gift is gonna have to be ok, dammit.
I want to write, but I think I hit my peak early when I sent that brutal as fuck email to someone who needed to be knocked off her high and mighty perch of self-importance. When I struck first with flattery before pivoting to decimate her latest offense. When my lips pulled into an unconscious grin at slipping the word “sycophantic” into the message, fully knowing that she’d have to look it up.
I want to write, but I can’t stop thinking of a late afternoon conversation. Of the souls who were here one month and gone the next after the lightning bolt of a cancer diagnosis stole their days like some insatiable god. Of the gnawing reminder that I am guaranteed nothing. Of the bucket list I’ve never enumerated, yet which lurks at my edges because whether or not I write it down, it exists.
I want to write, but the days are slow and the years are fast. Like grass growing and water boiling. Like childhood through a parent’s eyes. Like waiting for love. Like the only thing that can slow it down is the writing. Like it’s the last great bastion against the juggernaut of time. That’s how much I want to write.