Sometimes I start with the last line first.
Her name was Norma and she had black hair.
I wonder what high school would be like with a name like Woody.
I am choosing not to dwell in cynicism.
I can't believe she left him alone with her daughter. I sit tense on the other side of the door, ready to attack if I hear her scream.
Wilson does not like the sound or the vibration or the shape of the guitar. He sits grumpily on the loveseat in the other room while he plays.
This is my life.
That was not love,
in my imagination,
though I thought it was, or,
at least, I wanted it to be
It's like that movie that used to be one of my favorites and isn't really any more but still conveyed a lesson that I remember and appreciate today: The fantasy is not real love.
The real thing is much more complicated.
When it's on, there's nothing like it.
Don't react. Create.
Last night I swear to god I stood in the bloody bathroom with my psyche and we had a good chat. She is younger than I expected, but no less powerful or wise.
Today I was so tired. But the warmth and the light called to me, so I put on my running tights and I went back outside. I ran for miles with my face turned up toward the sun.