Giving into the voice that wants to have written, I am writing this prose entry without a plan or picture. The truth is that I attempted, first, to fix a draft of a poem. The draft remained the same as — if you'll pardon my wordiness here — poems take their own time to reveal themselves. No one knows when said draft will become a poem but that did not mean my brain was done telling me to write something, anything.
The days are shorter now in this cold November. Summer has ended and the last time we conversed (if you consider these one-sided prose entries as conversations..) was in August when I had discoverd a framework for feeling invincible. This isn't to catch you up on stuff since that point as I will run out of things to share. In summary: life cycles along. Know that I followed through on a substantial act of listening to one's own plotted map. I concede: we are the stories we tell ourselves and thus I am holding onto a retelling of triumph. Eventually.
Elsewhere, TSwift's Red (Taylor's Version) is everywhere. And that makes me happy. Not simply because it is a fantastic album but more so because her bringing this back is a knock on my memory's door. I get to miss days past gone with a renewed deliberation. The memory is enough to supersede any happiness, you know?
Until next time,
Riz