so i got an mfa, and my book is still very much far from done.
i joined a writing group and ended up coming into quite a tangle with the leader of the group before i realized he was someone important which makes me proud and cringe at the same time because i wonder if i would’ve spoken out if i knew who he was, exactly, and what he’d done with his life. success, abounds.
he has a really nice house. i can see the whole city, like wraparound view, at night from the windows.
and art everywhere.
i wonder why/if/when/why i want those things when i can have them, if i ever will, etc. i wonder if i want them, if i should want them at all.
i think we should light torches for our spaces where we were safe. even if the torch is small, even if it ends up burning down a lot of shit because you were accidentally irresponsible or let it build too high. i think we should try.
i think we should try.
i think i should try to do more. things? stuff? art? writing?
i am weary of feeling constantly on the cusp of something and hoarding that feeling to myself like it means something, like the anticipation is enough to fuel a life past its initial tingle.