My mind is not entirely dry.
I have something worth reading being written down on little napkins & all the other places I forget I write them
sometimes when I find these I want to kick myself for not stopping & seizing the moment in the way that it almost always needs to be seized and writing a full page or two instead of those three lines that I probably will never come back to the same.
My children, if I ever have them, may feel the same way or they may not.
I'm always sorry about these things though, the things I didn't do, didn't say, didn't finish and after I'm through being sorry for myself I'm sorry for everyone else. Not in vanity but just in a knowing way that has to admit it would have been worth it for me to stop everything else at the time and complete those things. Why didn't I speak the truth in love while I still could?
It's over now, they've come and gone, with their glorious moments, their hardships, the teary eyes, the upward battle, the almost in-expressible happinesses, the mountaintops, the valleys, the oppression, the falling, the beauty, the breathlessness of all of it. It's all done, but I... I am not. If the spark is in me, it remains. Everyday is a new chance for expression, empathy & creativity in communication, in footsteps, in how we touch the lives around us and what we leave behind.
Some things may be wasted, but there's always, always the new
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