Alyson

I wonder when it became overwhelming to write about what has been happening around me.

Everyone’s lips hold the breath that inflate ideas, to be exhaled—expired and useless—based on some acceptance or rejection. I have to breathe my own ideas now. There are so many people breathing where I want to go.

I think about writing letters to everyone who has ever touched me—in the spiritual way. Most, probably, on accident. But those moments of maybe something were the stones that kept me stepping toward the end of the path. Maybe “maybe” is a long rope that never ends. ♦