I have always written. I suppose when I was younger I wrote as a way to make sense of my life. A way to cope with my youth. When I was sad I wrote about sad things and when I was happy I wrote happy thoughts. it seemed straight forward. I don’t i ever really put much thought into it. I did it because it was something that freed my mind and potentially got rid of emotions that would have been otherwise bottled up.

The is a time of year that comes when summer is ending and the skies are turning gray that i feel a sense of sadness, a longing for something. I look for answers, for meaning. There must be something there my eyes just can’t focus on. I long for purpose. i want to understand. It is also in this moment my mind feels clear, renewed, fresh. This is my favorite time of year and it never last long enough. There is a part of me that wants to keep these feeling with me always, and a part that is relieved it is gone. It drains me. Its everything and nothing. Its all encompassing and all letting go.

I have written so much; so many words have left my pen. So many thoughts have crossed my path. Each one making me who i am now. The influences have shown through, memories have taken there proper place, emotions danced in costumes larger than life across the landscape.  Every word, every thought, every moment. Its all gone

I knew that when i moved 7 years ago from my tiny duplex in to my home i threw away everything in my garage. I didn’t open the boxes. There were lots. Books from college, papers i had written, journals i had kept. All of it gone. It was a conscience decision.  The feeling of purging the past and starting new, fresh, clean. I didn’t think twice then about letting all of it go. I don’t miss it. I don’t want it back.

There was a story. I have only written a few stories. There was one though about Anna. She was beautiful. Over the years I have seen her face, her longing, her emotions. I see her so clearly. I have kept her close. The story was short and I don’t remember the lines. She sat in the most comfortable chair, worn over the years. Laughter, happiness sorrow, they all rested with her.  A blanket nesseled by her side. Woven by her hands brought comfort. She waited, not a moment went by. The silence embraced her. There was a window, tattered curtains, that looked to the fields surrounding her tiny home. With that she is gone. The words missing.

If I had kept one thing. A story, an impression, a thought, a feeling that encompasses everything. Anna’s story would be the one. I have her with me now, though only a memory.


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