Love Letter to my reader:
I write for you.
When I don't feel you, I stop. I have to feel you.
Yet the only way for me to feel you there is to show up and write. Then send the writing to you.
Here I am again: naked again and ready again to dress the world that strips us daily of our humanity to reclaim our right to write, to connect in softer cloth.
Perhaps it is time for me to confess the dark. I wallow in the waste land that is the apocalypse of our isolation and that is our mortality in the face of imagined forevers. I freeze in the sorrow of our violence to ourselves and to each other. I duck my head deep in the sands of time at our appetite for righteousness even as I hear it in my own words, in these very words of my own.
Yet we are here, Reader. We are home. This is what we have: here and now. And, us.
So, I will show up. I will be here. I will write. As the meekest and as the greatest and as the unique and also the one of the gazillions that have gone before and the far fewer that I fear will go after me, I will write for you Reader.
No more promises and no more schedules. The one step after the other. The bodies in motion, dear Reader. The true, virtual and real time, felt reality of the body and the work and shit it produces. The falling and the rising and the reaching and the fear and joy of it all is the only thing I evoke now.
I love you Reader.