White Snow Red

A book closes. I go through the motions of day but in a daze, running lines in my head, testing my muscles against opportunities for improvement, seeing how the threads and storylines ache for polish and knowing some time you have to let it go. What an ebb and flow is this work, is this life. I ran along the river and the sunshine was bright but the wind so cold, I reckon the point is take the good with the bad, make lemonade and allow yourself a shot of bourbon in it. I found mistletoe in a box of Christmas ornaments and I suppose it isn't too late to pick up pennies in the street, she writes from the Arctic to say the sun has set for the last time in months now, here is polar night and all the strange, dark magic it brings.

I flip through handwritten pages, thoughts from a time when that was all I had to have, a time when I could stare at the skies for hours without a goal and trust that something would come of that, too. (And how it did). I take a deep breath, read the lines again, look back at my story, and begin to wrap it up.

...I don't know everything, and I don't control everything. And that's okay. I've learned that I can roll with the punches. 
I don't like the pain. 
But I like seeing myself pick myself the fuck back up 
and live.