Word.

I promised myself I’d post each month. Sometimes there’s nothing to be said. Other times there is so much, that for people like me who let the perfect get in the way of the good, it causes me to keep it in because it feels inadequate to try and synthesize feelings, epiphanies, and spirit into organized, insightful lines. So on the eve of another month after wanting to write for weeks with so much and so little, I’m keeping my word as bond to myself. And therein is the message. Sometimes all we have are our promises to ourselves. Nothing may be revelatory because life can exude simplicity to the point of being surreal for how unnoticeable or seamless it is. These past weeks I’ve had both the tendency to doubt my story and gifts, forgetting or downplaying them (despite putting several of them to superb use almost effortlessly), and conversely I’ve focused on my story too much as justification for the rumblings in my gut or to secure immobility. Either way it preoccupied me so that the writing didn’t manifest outside of my brain, though it’s damn near been cresting out of my heart, mouth and fingertips. Still, I tell myself beautiful stories almost daily based on the endless vault of creativity and observation, usually writing them in my mind faster than I can type. But my promise is my promise. Where, what, why, when and all that accompany these queries don’t have to make sense or be answered with each blink or breath. As I remember patience and gentleness with myself and all that I’ve protected, loved and grown within, both because of and in spite of trying times, I’m reminded of how my most cherished victories are the ones where I kept my promises to myself, no matter what. And as midnight approaches as constant as all change, honoring my word makes me feel like a rockstar and fully here.