a preamble

a stream-of-consciousness

I thought about taking a nap today. Then I thought about doing the dishes. Then about folding my clothes. Eventually, about writing. “But what would I write?” The question nags me not because I have no material, but because I have too much. Writing is paralyzing, somehow, when you’re living in a state of abundance. The Lord is so good, and my fingers are frozen. A thousand prompts run through my mind. What if there’s an EMP today? / My brother bought me a bracelet in Japan that accidentally symbolizes everything. / The leaves are changing and I’m not ready. / I bought a phone case that shows skeletons having a picnic in a graveyard because, y’know, memento mori. / I’ve forgiven the man who broke my heart; now what? / You know when you know, except when you don’t. / My job is a “downgrade,” and I couldn’t have asked for more. / The man I’m seeing is so very kind; but what is love, anyway? / Am I a writer, or am I just someone who writes? Essays write themselves in a millisecond in my mind and then vanish forever. What do I do with it all? Do I quit my job and do nothing but write? But then, it would all vanish and I’d have nothing to say. But I can’t write it all. Or can I? Should I? What if I do and it’s terrible? What if I don’t and it would have been wonderful? What if it’s somewhere pathetically (or gloriously) in the middle? How will I ever know? What if I leave it all behind and never write again? Only, I can’t do that — writing is like breathing. Like thinking. Like living a million lives that aren’t my own and yet, impossibly, are as intimate to myself as anything. Okay, running isn’t an option. (Where would I go, anyway?) I guess I must begin.