i've an end for this thing i've been writing since last winter. i've had an end since the beginning. i just haven't known how to get there.
i'm now approximately 150 words from it and i still don't fucking know.
so i'll bide my time reflecting on obvious things:
life so seldom looks as we imagine it should. we don't get what we want. or we do and it's not enough or we only get pieces. or we wind up not even wanting what we expect and not expecting what we really want.
remember that good christian boy i dated, the one i thanked god for and prayed for and for whom i wore flats? the demise of that relationship dashed all my expectations and yet, with it, a world i'd been steadily packing away suddenly sprung open- like a jack-in-the-box or a murphy bed or a secret passageway hidden in a bookshelf behind a tattered copy of gone with the wind.
what we're doing here- writing, living- is a process of constant revision. and i can't help but wonder if, much as we writers murder our darlings, maybe there comes a time when our expectations need to be pared away as well. so as to make room for wonder and possibilities and the unexpected and life.