Running out of time.

Yesterday’s me:
Confused.
Helpless.
Unsatisfied.

Me before.

Me not taking my shot, not writing like I’m running out of time.

Me before swirls of show tunes, rap, dance, history, drama and fierce intelligence.

Me before what Michelle Obama called “the best piece of art in any form that I have ever seen in my life”, me that could not help but concur, me that immediately bought the book (the geeky equivalent of getting the t-shirt).

Me before Hamilton.

Who would have thought that a musical would make me ponder so? Yet here I am, days and weeks later, still listening to the music and the whirlwind of words, and still asking:

Who am I?
What am I doing?
Why am I writing?
Why am I not writing like I’m running out of time?

Through the years, I’ve messed around with writing, trying and failing to find “my voice”.

A sea of competing interests and vices means I have always given wordsmithing a short shrift, never caressed it with the time, energy, consistency and love it needs.

No more.

Every day is one day closer to death, every minute a minute closer. I’m running out of time. I want to take my shot. I want to do the million things I haven’t done. I want to be satisfied, knowing I’ll never be satisfied.

I’ve tried to write in straight lines, bound by one form or another, stuck in between the lines of poetry and prose, fiction and non-fiction, long and short.

Now it’s time to turn the page sideways, backwards and upside down and just write.

Ignore form, ignore substance, ignore the gnawing feeling of being an imposter.

Forget my worries about not being the smartest in the room.

Just write.

Get words on a page. Get those pages into the world and see what happens.

Write. Write like I’m running out of time, every second I’m alive.

It’s time.

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