Here is a truth: there has been a nameless thing resting in the space between my heart and throat since the beginning of the year.
I don't know what to make of it. It swells at the most inopportune times, like now, when the world is asleep and tomorrow morning's wake up from a little lion two rooms over will come oh-so-soon.
I think it might be story.
There have been a few wisps appear — tendrils in the imagination — too nebulous to grab hold of and name.
And so I do what I know to do: I come to this space, and write, knowing I won't be actively sharing because I need to know I'm writing for me. I need to know this nameless thing is not for you.
Here is a lie, tainted by the truth: sometimes I wonder how I got here. How I went from writing incessantly to grasping moments out of thin air like miracles. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just close up shop and pretend this was once something I did, but not anymore. This is a lie because there is no way I could ever not write. It's not possible. Even when I wasn't writing because I was holding Jubal or crashing into bed or chugging coffee at work, I still wrote with invisible ink. My fingers reaching for the keys and various pens while I dreamed, the muscle memory kicking in and poems appearing out of nowhere, floating above my head into the ether.
Here is a truth: every day I begin again.
And so tonight, I'll close this window before I can think twice about syntax and edits and curl my body next to my love and feel his breath against my chest and the story will begin again and again and again....
....the nameless thing pulsing with new life and promise, waiting to be seen.