All This, For Me?

I wake early, too early, a quiet snow blanketing the blackness outside and I wonder what would happen if I just got up now. Anxious to get started. Anxious to milk every last drop of time out of the experience and already the end looms in the distance. The hours of silence are so few, so precious. My lungs expand with the West, my heart sinks into the little space I've carved and I know it was not easy to come by, but it is mine, now. All this, for me? I sit down with my piles of paper, with the little fire inside my chest that burns on unabated, I take a deep breath and begin to write.

All this,
for me.