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I sit down to write ‘helpful’ stories,  ‘important’ stories about things that other people might want to know about, might value….but there’s always another story that wants to be told…

What sucks me back to the raw sticky mess of a heart torn open? There’s beauty in it, vibrance, life, promise, surrender, sweet dreams, harsh realities…

I’ve sprung a well deep below the crust of our humanity and it gushes oily black riches with seemingly no end. Yet I feel the explosive force gentling to a trickle, to spurts, to fluctuating flows that can be safely approached, caught in my bucket, examined, used for fuel, set aside and let be… or bathed in, rolled around in, dipped in.

I seem to cherish the choking, love the leaking, seek out the sinking. Can this be my work, my gift to life? It goes on and on and on and though it nourishes me and drives me in ways I can’t comprehend, I try again and again to outrun the river, to leave it behind… until tired and tender I fall back into its dizzying embrace.

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