February 4, 2002
Try and talk me out of daily writing

It’s a matter of choices—homelessness or life filled, overworked or lazy, healthy or risk taking? Then, without notice, your mind becomes infected—depression feeds no water to creative flow. The riverbed dries… The sun still wakes, but the chapters are written without you. Choice seems unforgiving. I didn’t choose to get sick, or to let go! The choices were made for me—only to learn that a net had been placed below the falling ambitious connection. In looking back, I see answers. I also notice plenty of places where “choice” would’ve made a difference… but I chose to walk this way instead. Who dreams of one day being forty? Suddenly, you’re there! If lucky, the scars of several battles fought sit in the corners of your eyes while the scars of battles lost live in dark caverns somewhere, and everywhere I feel empty. The “choice” becomes willingness—to rebuild, or walk the very steps life gifted me… until it was time to realize some answers will never be located.