Dear K,
I've never been able to do small goals. I think that's why I've never been able to finish the things I start. I know I should be just going on one mile runs, but I want to run across the Sahara. When I ride my bicycle I hear a sports announcer in my ear, saying my last name like it's a prayer. "Is K*****n going to do it? Is he going to ride his bicycle faster and longer than any other human being alive?" I live for those stupid dreams. I ride my bicycle with the belief, or delusion, that in that moment, when I lose myself, when I lose this stupid world around me where I'm just a guy who works in a bank and sits in a cubicle and has no interaction with history and will die and be forgotten so quickly, it might as well be tomorrow, but when I ride my bicycle and hear that voice, hear that little voice saying "K*****n, K*****n, K*****n, K*****n, K*****N! K*****N! K*****N!" I my tires leave the ground, my body leaves the ground, my soul leaves this body, I am lifted and transported. I become something just for a moment. I touch that other universe, the one right next to ours where that is the reality. Where I am the man who is riding a bicycle faster than anyone has ever ridden a bicycle before I become my dreams, for one single shining moment when I am on the verge of collapsing from being out of breath. When I RUN, god damn! When I push that limit inside myself I open up a door to a land where nothing can't be done. The same thing happens when I write. Hell yes I want to be taught in High Schools. You bet your ass I want a Nobel Prize for literature.
That's ego talking though. You know what I really want? I want to be satisfied with something I write, and thank GOD that will never happen. I will write the rest of my life and I don't ever want to be satisfied. I want to keep getting better. I want to write through twenty different styles. I want to write so much that people look back and say: "this was K*****n? It's so different from his later stuff? I'm a fan of his early work, he was rougher around the edges. Have you read his recent stuff? He's really let himself go."
I've been covering these ambitions up my whole life and I think it is about damn time that I stopped. I have a fire lit inside of me and I mean to feed it one page of writing at a time until it is a towering inferno. I mean to sacrifice time and energy and thought and love to it. I mean to make myself into something. I mean to do great works in this world with nothing but some fingers and some buttons and some paper and some ink. I want to capture lightning and heat and breath in words. I know it can be done, and I want to do it.
In the meantime, I'm gonna finish this marathon. I'm going straight from running around the block to trying to run 26.2 miles. Right up to the Queen's Balcony. Right up to Buckingham Palace. I've got my sights set on the big things, but don't worry. I'm not giving up. I'm gonna put the blood and sweat in until I get there.
Yours,
K
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
the struggle of memory against forgetting
Dear K-
I am sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. The insomnia is back and I have been trying to fight it, as best I can, through tiny measures. One measure is to hide my phone away at night. I make it lie quiet and dormant, not to make a peep until it is time for me to arise. Sometimes it helps to disconnect yourself. Sometimes it feels good to unplug yourself from the stress of responsibility. My phone has been making me anxious. The introverted insomniac of my youth is making a special guest appearance in this month's episode of my life. Every time my cell phone flashes I worry it is someone I don’t want to talk to or someone I don’t have the energy to converse with. It makes me feel guilty.
Keep working on the novel. Don’t lose hope. Stop trying to assign an unknown future to it. Are you writing it for a specific endgame? Is it going to be the work that wins you a Nobel Prize? Is it going to be the creation that makes you the world’s next literary darling, and they’ll add you to all the high school curriculums so millions of sulky teenagers can flip through your pages with indifference? These goals are too lofty for this moment. When I run, I don’t look off into the distance towards the eventual finish line. It’s too far away…sometimes I can’t even see it. The thought of that distance makes me miserable and exhausted. Instead, I focus a few feet ahead of me. A quickly evolving target. Easily attainable. It also lets me run in the present moment, prepare for the steps ahead of me and avoid any potential pitfalls or trip-ups. You need to do the same with your novel. Don’t get weary trying to strain to see the finish line. It may still be quite a ways away. Concentrate a few paces ahead, and work towards that. Repeat, repeat, repeat. You’ll get to the end, eventually. And then we can celebrate as the New York Times puts you on some list.
I bought myself a new blazer yesterday. I also punched a sparring bag until my knuckles broke open and bled. Sometimes the simple things in life can bring a dose of unexpected pleasure.
Enjoy the breeze,
-k
I am sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. The insomnia is back and I have been trying to fight it, as best I can, through tiny measures. One measure is to hide my phone away at night. I make it lie quiet and dormant, not to make a peep until it is time for me to arise. Sometimes it helps to disconnect yourself. Sometimes it feels good to unplug yourself from the stress of responsibility. My phone has been making me anxious. The introverted insomniac of my youth is making a special guest appearance in this month's episode of my life. Every time my cell phone flashes I worry it is someone I don’t want to talk to or someone I don’t have the energy to converse with. It makes me feel guilty.
Keep working on the novel. Don’t lose hope. Stop trying to assign an unknown future to it. Are you writing it for a specific endgame? Is it going to be the work that wins you a Nobel Prize? Is it going to be the creation that makes you the world’s next literary darling, and they’ll add you to all the high school curriculums so millions of sulky teenagers can flip through your pages with indifference? These goals are too lofty for this moment. When I run, I don’t look off into the distance towards the eventual finish line. It’s too far away…sometimes I can’t even see it. The thought of that distance makes me miserable and exhausted. Instead, I focus a few feet ahead of me. A quickly evolving target. Easily attainable. It also lets me run in the present moment, prepare for the steps ahead of me and avoid any potential pitfalls or trip-ups. You need to do the same with your novel. Don’t get weary trying to strain to see the finish line. It may still be quite a ways away. Concentrate a few paces ahead, and work towards that. Repeat, repeat, repeat. You’ll get to the end, eventually. And then we can celebrate as the New York Times puts you on some list.
I bought myself a new blazer yesterday. I also punched a sparring bag until my knuckles broke open and bled. Sometimes the simple things in life can bring a dose of unexpected pleasure.
Enjoy the breeze,
-k
Monday, August 8, 2016
I'm A Little Piece of Everything
Dear K,
Sometimes I get sad. Sometimes I get down. Sometimes I wonder what this whole life is worth. I wonder whether I should just sit down and not move. It's been a long time since I wanted to die, and I'm pretty sure I'm done with that. I'm pretty sure I want to live and live and live and live. I'm sure that I want my heart to keep beating, even when it will be old and struggling to beat I want it to try for one more beat. I want to die in my bed in a hospital at the age of 136 struggling to breathe and forcing my heart to beat one more time. I like living. But I will die. So will you and the birds in the trees and the whales in the ocean and the grass on the prairie and the dogs in their kennels and the presidents and kings and all the shining faces on television. Statues will crumble. Everything will become ruins and dust and then even the ruins and dust will die. The sun itself will die. Then someday on some distant frozen shore of time the universe will give up its last beat.
Lately the thing that makes me at peace with all this is my secret knowledge that I am part of all these things and they are all part of me. There is no separation between you and I and the bird in the sky or God's wild eye staring down at us or the pig wallowing in its filthy sty. We're the same we're the same we're the same. Time and space are meaningless, you're a little speck in the body of the universe.
I guess, I also don't know how much peace I find there. Sometimes I force that feeling. Sometimes I force a connection with the universe. Sometimes I don't feel like I'm a part of everything and that I'm just a little useless cheap thing that's going to get trampled underfoot. Just something smaller and less useful than a million billion trillion other things just like it. Something that doesn't have anything important to say or do.
Then I go outside and I take a walk and I feel the wind on my skin.
Did you know that I've always believed that God is in the wind. Ever since I was a little kid. I've never been alone if I've been in the wind. I remember once I was walking from our farm house to go check on the neighbors horses in a blizzard. They lived a half mile down the road and it was a crazy cold January and this was a blizzard that kept us snowed in for most of a week. ON the third day my Step-mom and sister decided that they were going to go and check on the horses. I think they were both stir crazy from being stuck inside because of the snow. We couldn't go anywhere in our car because it was so cold. I went with them because I was tired of being inside.
We walked to the neighbors barn in white out conditions. It wasn't snowing anymore, but in Iowa we have WIND. There's nothing to stop it sweeping over the fields. The white out was from the wind picking up snow from all the fields and blowing it around. Making it pile up in huge drifts that covered the road. The wind could just about pick you up. Scoop you up in it's big cold God hands. I remember walking around in it with my arms tucked inside the torso of my coat, sleeves pulled in too, for extra warmth. Hat and scarf around my head, and laughing with delight at how cold and strong the wind was. I remembered thinking that I could lay back into it and be carried off by it, and that the cold would never touch me, but I would feel the giant soft hands of God.
Whenever I am cold and lonely. Whenever I am hot and miserable. I go for a walk and I wait for God to reach out and touch me. Any little bit will do. Any movement of the air over my skin and I am convinced again in a benevolent God that loves me and has a plan for me and that I am doing ok and going to be alright. I think this might be why I like bicycles so much. Because you can pump your feet and feel God rush over you, and it doesn't feel fake, it feels like God.
I walked home from a coffee shop tonight in defeat. My novel is defeating me. I'm being defeated every night I write. It's all garbage and it's all fear and cowardice coming from my fingers through the keyboard. I'm trying to extend the story I Guess. I think I'm trying to make this thing bigger than it is. I'm really afraid of letting it go. I don't know if that is it, or if its just fear, irrational fear getting in the way, stepping on the hose. You know? Fear comes in and steps on the idea hose.
Writing this blog with you is nice. I feel like I can come here and say anything that's inside of me and you won't judge me, and I know that what's inside of me isn't that bad. I'm not important enough to hide anything truly terrible inside of me. I'm just a little guy. I'm just a little guy trying to write. I'm just a little piece of a bigger thing. I'm just a little guy in the wind. I'm just a little piece of everything.
Yours,
K
Sometimes I get sad. Sometimes I get down. Sometimes I wonder what this whole life is worth. I wonder whether I should just sit down and not move. It's been a long time since I wanted to die, and I'm pretty sure I'm done with that. I'm pretty sure I want to live and live and live and live. I'm sure that I want my heart to keep beating, even when it will be old and struggling to beat I want it to try for one more beat. I want to die in my bed in a hospital at the age of 136 struggling to breathe and forcing my heart to beat one more time. I like living. But I will die. So will you and the birds in the trees and the whales in the ocean and the grass on the prairie and the dogs in their kennels and the presidents and kings and all the shining faces on television. Statues will crumble. Everything will become ruins and dust and then even the ruins and dust will die. The sun itself will die. Then someday on some distant frozen shore of time the universe will give up its last beat.
Lately the thing that makes me at peace with all this is my secret knowledge that I am part of all these things and they are all part of me. There is no separation between you and I and the bird in the sky or God's wild eye staring down at us or the pig wallowing in its filthy sty. We're the same we're the same we're the same. Time and space are meaningless, you're a little speck in the body of the universe.
I guess, I also don't know how much peace I find there. Sometimes I force that feeling. Sometimes I force a connection with the universe. Sometimes I don't feel like I'm a part of everything and that I'm just a little useless cheap thing that's going to get trampled underfoot. Just something smaller and less useful than a million billion trillion other things just like it. Something that doesn't have anything important to say or do.
Then I go outside and I take a walk and I feel the wind on my skin.
Did you know that I've always believed that God is in the wind. Ever since I was a little kid. I've never been alone if I've been in the wind. I remember once I was walking from our farm house to go check on the neighbors horses in a blizzard. They lived a half mile down the road and it was a crazy cold January and this was a blizzard that kept us snowed in for most of a week. ON the third day my Step-mom and sister decided that they were going to go and check on the horses. I think they were both stir crazy from being stuck inside because of the snow. We couldn't go anywhere in our car because it was so cold. I went with them because I was tired of being inside.
We walked to the neighbors barn in white out conditions. It wasn't snowing anymore, but in Iowa we have WIND. There's nothing to stop it sweeping over the fields. The white out was from the wind picking up snow from all the fields and blowing it around. Making it pile up in huge drifts that covered the road. The wind could just about pick you up. Scoop you up in it's big cold God hands. I remember walking around in it with my arms tucked inside the torso of my coat, sleeves pulled in too, for extra warmth. Hat and scarf around my head, and laughing with delight at how cold and strong the wind was. I remembered thinking that I could lay back into it and be carried off by it, and that the cold would never touch me, but I would feel the giant soft hands of God.
Whenever I am cold and lonely. Whenever I am hot and miserable. I go for a walk and I wait for God to reach out and touch me. Any little bit will do. Any movement of the air over my skin and I am convinced again in a benevolent God that loves me and has a plan for me and that I am doing ok and going to be alright. I think this might be why I like bicycles so much. Because you can pump your feet and feel God rush over you, and it doesn't feel fake, it feels like God.
I walked home from a coffee shop tonight in defeat. My novel is defeating me. I'm being defeated every night I write. It's all garbage and it's all fear and cowardice coming from my fingers through the keyboard. I'm trying to extend the story I Guess. I think I'm trying to make this thing bigger than it is. I'm really afraid of letting it go. I don't know if that is it, or if its just fear, irrational fear getting in the way, stepping on the hose. You know? Fear comes in and steps on the idea hose.
Writing this blog with you is nice. I feel like I can come here and say anything that's inside of me and you won't judge me, and I know that what's inside of me isn't that bad. I'm not important enough to hide anything truly terrible inside of me. I'm just a little guy. I'm just a little guy trying to write. I'm just a little piece of a bigger thing. I'm just a little guy in the wind. I'm just a little piece of everything.
Yours,
K
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
my only swerving
Dear K-
Why can’t I be more like a lake? I used to be a lake. It was a long time ago. Sometimes I can hardly remember. They told me I had two weeks to live, but I made liars out of people who only had the best intentions. I kept breathing, and for years after that I was a lake. It was refreshing. It was remarkable. The world was vast, and there was so much more to it than my small, narrow window had previously admitted me to see. I needed to be shown what lay beyond my reach. I needed to be shown what I would care the most about when I didn’t think I was going to live anymore.
That’s not something I would recommend most 19-year-olds to experience, but it certainly puts a perspective on things.
But I lost that. Somewhere along the way I’ve gotten all cluttered. Did you know in Slovenia there are disappearing lakes? Lake Cerknica is the largest of them. It appears and disappears with the seasons. Sometimes, I feel like that lake.
Today I almost cried, just listening to a song. I’ve listened to it too many times. Songs sometimes become like smells to me. You know how sometimes smells can evoke a certain visceral reaction, a memory? It’s like Proust’s madeleine. When I hear a song that I have heard again and again, I start to associate memories to it. This song in question doesn’t even necessarily evoke a firm memory. It is more of a state of mind. It makes me think of sitting in an airport, waiting for a flight. That eager anticipation of going someplace different, an escape, mingled with the anxiety of change of routine and thought of possible complications. I’ve found that I actually love sitting in airports. Some of my best moments of creative productivity have been while slouched down in an uncomfortable airport bench seat, next to complete strangers, my feet propped up on my suitcase in front of me. There’s something extremely satisfying about being in transition. It’s the only time my restlessness is relieved.
I am glad that we are friends. I don’t think anyone else could bear to hear how miserable and lost I am the majority of the time. I’m supposed to be the stable one. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing.
So they say.
-k
Why can’t I be more like a lake? I used to be a lake. It was a long time ago. Sometimes I can hardly remember. They told me I had two weeks to live, but I made liars out of people who only had the best intentions. I kept breathing, and for years after that I was a lake. It was refreshing. It was remarkable. The world was vast, and there was so much more to it than my small, narrow window had previously admitted me to see. I needed to be shown what lay beyond my reach. I needed to be shown what I would care the most about when I didn’t think I was going to live anymore.
That’s not something I would recommend most 19-year-olds to experience, but it certainly puts a perspective on things.
But I lost that. Somewhere along the way I’ve gotten all cluttered. Did you know in Slovenia there are disappearing lakes? Lake Cerknica is the largest of them. It appears and disappears with the seasons. Sometimes, I feel like that lake.
Today I almost cried, just listening to a song. I’ve listened to it too many times. Songs sometimes become like smells to me. You know how sometimes smells can evoke a certain visceral reaction, a memory? It’s like Proust’s madeleine. When I hear a song that I have heard again and again, I start to associate memories to it. This song in question doesn’t even necessarily evoke a firm memory. It is more of a state of mind. It makes me think of sitting in an airport, waiting for a flight. That eager anticipation of going someplace different, an escape, mingled with the anxiety of change of routine and thought of possible complications. I’ve found that I actually love sitting in airports. Some of my best moments of creative productivity have been while slouched down in an uncomfortable airport bench seat, next to complete strangers, my feet propped up on my suitcase in front of me. There’s something extremely satisfying about being in transition. It’s the only time my restlessness is relieved.
I am glad that we are friends. I don’t think anyone else could bear to hear how miserable and lost I am the majority of the time. I’m supposed to be the stable one. I’m supposed to know what I’m doing.
So they say.
-k
Sunday, July 31, 2016
A Handful Of Salt
Dear K,
I read this wonderful little koan the other day. Do you know what a koan is? It's a zen tradition. Where you tell a story, usually about some old bhuddist master explaining something to one of his students. The story is short. The story is true, and like all things that are really true it is true from multiple angles. This is why it is so hard to write a koan. It is hard enough to get something to be true one way, most people never manage it. We find the truth like people find furniture in a dark room. We stub our toes on it, bruise our shins on it, and curse it, when really it is a lovely seat made for us, if only we had the courage to sit in it, but you cannot sit in something that you do not know is there can you?
This is the koan I read: There was an old bhuddist master and his disciple. The disciple had led a life full of worldly suffering, and he complained about this to his master to the point where his master knew he needed to teach his student a lesson. So the master placed a glass of water in front of his student and bade him to pick up a handful of salt, and pour it into the glass, and then drink. The student did so. The master asked how the student liked the drink, and the student said it tasted bitter and salty. The master then asked the student to walk with him. They lived high up in the mountains so that they could be closer to God. The student followed his master to a mountain lake. The master again asked the student to pick up a handful of salt and pour it into the lake and drink. The student did so. The master asked him how he liked the drink. The student said it tasted fresh and sweet and cold and clear. The master then said that the pain we gather in life is the handful of salt, can you gather more than your hands can carry? No you cannot for you have nothing but your hands to carry things with, and the vessel we drink from is our sense of scale. Are you contained in a glass? Are you small like that? Or are you a part of something larger? Are you a glass or are you a lake. It is good to be a lake.
It would be much better if I could say that story in fewer sentences, but I am not very practiced at writing koans. I would like to say though, thank you for being my friend, thank you for being my confidant, thank you for helping me keep upright in the storms of life.
I hope we keep writing to each other for ever.
Kindest of regards,
K
I read this wonderful little koan the other day. Do you know what a koan is? It's a zen tradition. Where you tell a story, usually about some old bhuddist master explaining something to one of his students. The story is short. The story is true, and like all things that are really true it is true from multiple angles. This is why it is so hard to write a koan. It is hard enough to get something to be true one way, most people never manage it. We find the truth like people find furniture in a dark room. We stub our toes on it, bruise our shins on it, and curse it, when really it is a lovely seat made for us, if only we had the courage to sit in it, but you cannot sit in something that you do not know is there can you?
This is the koan I read: There was an old bhuddist master and his disciple. The disciple had led a life full of worldly suffering, and he complained about this to his master to the point where his master knew he needed to teach his student a lesson. So the master placed a glass of water in front of his student and bade him to pick up a handful of salt, and pour it into the glass, and then drink. The student did so. The master asked how the student liked the drink, and the student said it tasted bitter and salty. The master then asked the student to walk with him. They lived high up in the mountains so that they could be closer to God. The student followed his master to a mountain lake. The master again asked the student to pick up a handful of salt and pour it into the lake and drink. The student did so. The master asked him how he liked the drink. The student said it tasted fresh and sweet and cold and clear. The master then said that the pain we gather in life is the handful of salt, can you gather more than your hands can carry? No you cannot for you have nothing but your hands to carry things with, and the vessel we drink from is our sense of scale. Are you contained in a glass? Are you small like that? Or are you a part of something larger? Are you a glass or are you a lake. It is good to be a lake.
It would be much better if I could say that story in fewer sentences, but I am not very practiced at writing koans. I would like to say though, thank you for being my friend, thank you for being my confidant, thank you for helping me keep upright in the storms of life.
I hope we keep writing to each other for ever.
Kindest of regards,
K
Thursday, July 28, 2016
A Fool For God A Fool For Love
Dear K,
I want to wake up next to somebody for the rest of my life. I want to look in their eyes and never ever want to close mine for fear of missing one single moment of theirs. I want to breathe their breath. I want to grow old with somebody. I want to watch each liver spot and each wrinkle and each crow's foot come in and I want to kiss them and bless them and revel in them because they are trophies of years spent with me. I want to raise children with somebody and watch them play in a yard. I want to watch grandchildren play in a yard. I want to lift somebody up. I want to make soup for them when their sick, and when we're both old and dying I want to say that I couldn't have done it better.
I want to reach my hand out for theirs and find it waiting for me already. I want to be so in love with somebody that the sun exploding could not tear us apart. I want somebody to love me this much I want to love somebody this much. I want to love everything about a person. I want to love their friends and family and their hometown and the bed they slept in as a child and I want to love each hurt and scar and each twist and turn of their life, for all of these things created the one I love and how could I love them without loving every part of them, being grateful and thankful to everyone on this whole damn planet for making the one I love. I want to die inside of a love like this.
I want to be buried in it. I want to spread a love like this. I want to dance slowly in an empty room with the woman I love and him softly a song that we used to dance to when we were younger. I want to do this until one of us is in a wheelchair. I want love and I ambitiously want love.
The Fool,
K
I want to wake up next to somebody for the rest of my life. I want to look in their eyes and never ever want to close mine for fear of missing one single moment of theirs. I want to breathe their breath. I want to grow old with somebody. I want to watch each liver spot and each wrinkle and each crow's foot come in and I want to kiss them and bless them and revel in them because they are trophies of years spent with me. I want to raise children with somebody and watch them play in a yard. I want to watch grandchildren play in a yard. I want to lift somebody up. I want to make soup for them when their sick, and when we're both old and dying I want to say that I couldn't have done it better.
I want to reach my hand out for theirs and find it waiting for me already. I want to be so in love with somebody that the sun exploding could not tear us apart. I want somebody to love me this much I want to love somebody this much. I want to love everything about a person. I want to love their friends and family and their hometown and the bed they slept in as a child and I want to love each hurt and scar and each twist and turn of their life, for all of these things created the one I love and how could I love them without loving every part of them, being grateful and thankful to everyone on this whole damn planet for making the one I love. I want to die inside of a love like this.
I want to be buried in it. I want to spread a love like this. I want to dance slowly in an empty room with the woman I love and him softly a song that we used to dance to when we were younger. I want to do this until one of us is in a wheelchair. I want love and I ambitiously want love.
The Fool,
K
Monday, July 25, 2016
The Itch of Bloody Antlers, Bone Rubbed Raw Against A Tree
Dear K,
Did you know that I can be very good at talking to women? In the last few weeks I've had phone numbers thrust on me. I've had women approach me. It's strange. This is new for me. I feel no different. I don't feel as if I've changed one bit in my whole life. I'm just hopeless. I think that might be the cause. I don't care about what happens with any of these women. I'm not ready to fall in love again. I don't want them to fall in love with me, and still I write pretty things and do pretty things and wear pretty clothes.
Without meaning to I've built a career out of being a heartbreaker. Once at a party, before we were dating, my most recent ex heard me say "I'm just a lone wolf looking for my next prey." She thought I was being serious. I've never felt like a wolf. My last name means Fawn in German. I'm the thing that wolves eat. I'm supposed to be easy prey. I've always thrown myself at the best wolves. I guess somewhere along the way I grew antlers.
Nothing I can do about the past though. Nothing anyone can do about it. It's there, it happened, it's gone, we move on and on. Endlessly forward down the stream, and we can't ever see what's around the next bend. So I'm going to charge, and use all my strengths, and be myself and be fully myself and I won't worry about who I've hurt or how much I've hurt them anymore. They're all grown and gone from me anyway, and if they can't get over a little fawn like me then, what's the point in being a wolf?
Antlers down,
K
Did you know that I can be very good at talking to women? In the last few weeks I've had phone numbers thrust on me. I've had women approach me. It's strange. This is new for me. I feel no different. I don't feel as if I've changed one bit in my whole life. I'm just hopeless. I think that might be the cause. I don't care about what happens with any of these women. I'm not ready to fall in love again. I don't want them to fall in love with me, and still I write pretty things and do pretty things and wear pretty clothes.
Without meaning to I've built a career out of being a heartbreaker. Once at a party, before we were dating, my most recent ex heard me say "I'm just a lone wolf looking for my next prey." She thought I was being serious. I've never felt like a wolf. My last name means Fawn in German. I'm the thing that wolves eat. I'm supposed to be easy prey. I've always thrown myself at the best wolves. I guess somewhere along the way I grew antlers.
Nothing I can do about the past though. Nothing anyone can do about it. It's there, it happened, it's gone, we move on and on. Endlessly forward down the stream, and we can't ever see what's around the next bend. So I'm going to charge, and use all my strengths, and be myself and be fully myself and I won't worry about who I've hurt or how much I've hurt them anymore. They're all grown and gone from me anyway, and if they can't get over a little fawn like me then, what's the point in being a wolf?
Antlers down,
K
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