Scratch

The bar waxes and wanes, Monday night before a holiday and we're all trying to fill up on strength and resistance before we are reduced to children who do not know how to fight for themselves. Silverware can turn fatal with the right lighting. My regular bartender is away; my spine crackles at the incongruent playlist but the post-it on my word processor says don't be precious, so I pull out piles of paper and get to work. At home, the cupboards bulge with holiday spices and pounds of butter, the corners whisper of tinsel and light. I know it's just an excuse to hide from the world, but if this world were yours, would you not take it? I worked so much for a while I forgot my own name but nothing lasts forever, not even that storm in your chest: if you just sit here long enough that racing heart will pass. If you just wait at this word processor, eventually the story will show up and let you tell it. All this loose yarn is nothing but a headache now, sure, but eventually you will tie it all together and create a tapestry.

You'll know when it's time to give up on a white whale.

It's not yet.

So keep moving.