How Often Do We Do That, He

We Walked Along The River With The Words Streaming Behind Us Like Ribbons In The Night.

To Fashion An Inner Story Of Our Pain Carries Us Into The Heart Of It, Which Is Where Rebirth Inevitably Occurs.

Our Earlier Lives Aren't Wrong, They Are Just Pre-construction. Our Lives Are Meant To Unfold, To Evolve, And That's Good. The Only Wrong Thing, Perhaps, Is Permanently Hesitating On The Verge Of Courage, Which Would Prevent This Process From Taking Place.

When He Spoke, The Roughness Was Gone From His Voice. "i Could Tell You I Did It. That's What You Wanna Hear. I Could Tell You She Did It To Herself, But Both Ways I'd Be Lying. It Was You Who Did It, Lily. You Didn't Mean It, But It Was You.

Finally, I Began To Write About Becoming An Older Woman And The Trepidation It Stirred. The Small, Telling "betrayals" Of My Body. The Stalled, Eerie Stillness In My Writing, Accompanied By An Ache For Some Unlived Destiny. I Wrote About The Raw, Unsettled Feelings Coursing Through Me, The Need To Divest And Relocate, The Urge To Radically Simplify And Distill Life Into A New, Unknown Meaning.