When an opportunity knocks, do you peek through the curtain, expecting a puerile prank? Do you slide the deadbolt over for good measure? Or invite it over for tea?
All the scraps of writing I’ve been doing are loose sheets of paper on the floor. A tin trash can in the corner is overwhelmed with crumpled paper, spilling over. It’s good to feel casual about an abandoned, unfinished book. But nothing is ever really complete, just abandoned. I sit here and make peace with the disorder, yielding to the process.
The dizzying meanderings of my life are now, in motion, reeling from one bad decision to the next, one exchange to another, and lessons that will only be learned too well and forgotten. I accept the waywardness of life itself and remove my person suit and slip into moments instead. Celebrate the whims, the naivete, thwarted plans, and bedraggled appearances. Bangs cut a bit too short, saying something and taking it back, and spilling over onto the floor. I draw stares and make a peep in a quiet crowd. I tell them, “I’m as surprised as you are.”
I’ll remain passive without altering anything around me. This bigger idea of nonchalance lends itself to the richness of life.
I’ve avoided life, and now I’m walking back into it.