Leaping

It was the willingness to fall flat on my face that allowed me to soar.

The chip on my shoulder and fire in my gut that gave me the courage to leave.

It was this invisible place, this inner sanctum, this burning passion, that prompted me to pursue my dreams.

It was standing in the bathroom banging my chest because I knew there was no one else who could fulfill my dreams for me but me.

It was the anger with which I left grad school. The drive to rush headlong into my highest aspirations.

I am remembering now what fuels me, though I have forgotten, though rejection has deflated my sails, stolen my vigor, and left me filled with questions, left me reeling in a sad complacent depression, thinking often of suicide, often of escape, often of how hopeless and pitiful my life is. But I am remembering what led me to leave. I am remembering what has given me strength.

It’s nothing but love. Love for the craft that has been my gift since birth. Love for the written word. Love for the only thing that really matters to me.

I mustn’t forget. I must keep my eye on the ball even if I can’t see the ball. I must pull myself out of the mud and the dark and refocus myself upon the light.

I am still leaping. I am still falling. May I continue until I die. May I never forget, never never ever again who I am.

I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

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