Except I haven’t. And I know why.
My ghosts wait for me in my notebook.
My writing revisits the past. Takes it apart, re-assembles. Tilts it–left, right, up, down–to reveal previously ignored angles. It digs in the scraps of my psyche for new lessons from old stories.
And I’m so fucking tired of old stories. Exhausted from judging my broken parts and creating new loops in my head to heal them.
Maybe everyone isn’t meant to be healed. I want to get on with it.
Except my writing never wants to get on with it. My writing wants to debate and explain and make my life palatable. My writing wants to not be fucked up.
Maybe the solution is simpler than my pen wants to admit. Maybe I am just fucked up. And maybe fucked up isn’t the worst thing in the world. Who isn’t fucked up?
So I’m not writing 10 minutes a day. Fuck old stories and fuck ghosts and fuck copping pleas to bring the picture of my life off the edge on which it’s determined to reside.
This is what it is. And maybe I’m just fucked up.