Achieve

Two thousand, five hundred seventy-seven posts. How many manuscripts, how many stories. Nothing is easy to count in the piles at your feet, your floor is poetry by now. You start anew. Blank slate, white page, new month, new you, the human spirit was built on blissful ignorance. 

There's a magic in the untold story, in that moment just before it reaches you. You see its outstretched hand, sense its scent on the wind, feel something stirring inside you, something like hope. You remember the delirium of so many times before, the conviction that you'd gladly give up every other love, gladly set your house on fire, if only the story would remain with you and let itself be told. 

It is an illness, perhaps. 

But we're all going to die one way or another. 

I agreed long ago to let this be what kills me.