The Dusking

I am starting to imagine that creating every day is less a blog and more a journal.

Less fully formed polished veneer, more letters... from me, to you.

I am not scared of you. Aren't we sitting here; having this moment together? Do you hear my breathing? I think I can hear yours.

But speak a little louder. When I ask 'What makes you come alive?', I mean it. Try practice it now, try to speak your truth. Even if it comes out jumbled, a little incoherent. I will be patient.

More letters... from me, to me.

I am showing up for me, one fragment at a time.

The room was nearly dark, so I played some chords and hit record, and my fingers did the rest. It happened, not perfectly. There is crackling and dissonance. Like my body, then, with all its scars and imperfections. Like my voice when it breaks.

I show up. I did not promise to be perfect.

The dusking is here. Soon, there will be stars. Not everyone will see them, giving up the right to the night infinity in order for some convenience.

I am starting to lose patience for those old comforts.

My pulse is moving, a little faster. The sky is already moving into darkness. There is only motion. Forward, onward; however hard we try to move back.