Rise early again, the mornings are light now but the head groggy, uncertain of its night time convictions. Why was I doing this again? Sit in front of a blank page as dawn evaporates into Arctic winds. A bullet point list outlines a story, but falls flat. You think, I do not make the rules. The story tells itself to me, that is how it always has been. I do not make the rules.
An entire new person grows in front of me, a person who was not there before but who now suddenly has a whole life behind her. Sets construct themselves and lines of dialogue are rehearsed, the road unravels before our poor hapless players, there's no turning back now.
Sunlight arrives, a new work day arrives, deadlines wave in the margins, I close the word processor and direct my attentions elsewhere. But it has been started now. That place lives now, when it did not before. I feel the itch grow in my spine, the constant pull to come back, come back and stay. Little embers of hope.
I count the pennies under my mattress, tally up the beads on the abacus: buy myself a few more moments on the page. Watch the ink curlicue around the margins, feel the soft beating of magic. We survived February.
Now we get to live.
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