today i write because it is all i know how to do. i move about in the world, doing things. talking to people. picking up groceries. laughing at the corny joke the cracked by the garbage man. deciding that i liked it when the stranger blew me a kiss when he cut me off (better than an alternative hand gesture). sitting at my desk. checking off items on a to do list. finishing projects. being polite to customers. but i don’t know how to do any of these things. i have adapted to doing them. i have learned the motions of doing them. but none of them make any sense to me. i can’t even talk intelligently about them. i can only write.
when you bleed for a thing, you might as well have given birth to it. having never given birth, i know that i can’t possibly imagine what it must be like, but i imagine it must be like bleeding. sacrifice. my dream lay on the altar having been cut out of me. at that time and in that season, that was where it had to be. sacrifice is not always a bad thing. but now. now i turn and look at it. it has grown larger instead of diminishing. it has not gone softly into the recesses of life, but rather has taken on a more distinct form. it is beautiful. i look around at the pools of blood, sweat, and tears shed for all the other things.
the things i laid my dream on the altar for.