For a time I was afraid of you, like if I came to write I might not like what I have to say, worse off I have been worried for months now that I have nothing to say. I’m worried the words have dried up, wrapped like brittle hollow cactus around my bones and better judgement. It has seemed for sometime too simple to ask questions, too complicated to want to answers.
Time has rolled itself like a rug doubling over and around and around and I find myself in hot places with chapped lips and more afternoons than I could ever write or count. But there are some things rattling around inside of me, things it is probably time I unpack like the rest of it.
There is a lot to be said about airports and hot afternoons and glasses of rum or whatever we drank that week. The last year of my life feels like a picture book I can flip through. The background changes, it rises and swells and the colors bleed from page to page. If it’s true and I have been running from something, then what happens when I stop? The responsibility of writing something worth while feels like a greater pressure than taking care of myself. He told me I should sit down and write before I became afraid of it. Instead, I ran.
If I started to unpack I’d talk about the morning the baby hawk died and what came after that evening. I’d talk about being sick in the desert in the middle of the night, so sick the pebbles press cuts into my palm and my fever dreams make the stars talk. I would dig up something about the rain in Bali, something about my loneliness there and how it snaked around me like the vines on my walks. I would most certainly write about the drive to the farm.
If I try and boil it down I’ll be wandering those marble hallways forever, drunk on rum and sun soaked and thin in the right way. There was always a thin linen blowing in the wind, a stranger around the corner, a drink on the way. It was a promising time and I’m glad you were there.