It could be that the time of writing the way I used to write is coming to a close for now. I don’t have the energy to tell stories, it seems. The life blood that used to urge me forward, used to press against the walls of my veins to be spilled upon the page, runs now too thin, too quiet, almost silent, almost dead. I don’t believe in kicking a thing back to life because you can’t. That’s not how it works. You cannot beat love out of you. If I have learned anything over my many years of writing it’s that it has a life of its own, a path all its own. Inside of me there is a voice all my own which comes through the words but also runs deeper, so much deeper than the words. It is a pulse, a knowing, it speaks without words which makes it impossible to explain. It is a place inside beyond explanation. And right now, as I sit in blankets by candle glow, in the darkness before the sunrise, I have no where to go, no where to run from this place inside, this deep undercurrent of something so much bigger and wider than myself, than anything I have ever said or written or done with my one ridiculously complicated life. Maybe I’m writing this for myself more than anyone else. Of course I am. Writing for them is entertainment. Writing for me is more like a Hail Mary, a stone thrown into a river which is churning and rushing past, crushing everything in its wake. I stand on a hilltop counting stars without counting them, I just gaze up at gigantic swaths of night sky and trace the pierce points from one to the next until it all blurs into one massive swirl of cosmic dust cloud. A mystery unfolds without and within me, something displaying its infinite beauty which takes my breath and turns it to wind. Is it beauty? That word feels much too small, too cheapened by artists and muses. What cuts the breath from my body is not beauty but sheer vastness of space, the spiraling of endless universal space. Stretching my arms and legs out in each direction, I lay like a star upon the grass and imagine myself spinning into flossy light. A weight inside the weightlessness. A beating heart in the center of the irony of time. The things I am afraid of bloom large in the distance. In the silence of my being, I can hear the words I do not dare speak beyond the confines of my weary soul: There is a battle ahead. Yes, I already know.