It is time for a confession. (Being raised Catholic seems to elicit such an act.)
Did you pause? Hold your breath? Wonder at all?
(Yes? Maybe. Hope so.)
Will it be some lurid detail? Some bourgeois balderdash?
In my profession, I am expected to write and publish. (Any academics – current or former – out there are chanting “Publish or perish.”)
However, I struggle with writing. Each post goes through multiple iterations.
As if it matters, right?
This is as close to art as I am. Do the words’ topography challenge your journey? Build the core of being, of thought, of heart?
What if I wrote – every day? Just wrote? Without censor? Without fear?
Would we come back to read these words? To wonder as we wander?
Can I? Will I?
I confess that I fear we won’t, I fear we will.