I tell myself stories, stories, stories, all kinds of stories in all kinds of everyday genres.
I quietly recite the story of my entitlements, of what I'm owed and tales of fairness and what's coming my way.
I run the story of my fear past the editor of my ego and revise and re-visit the hero and the villain and oh how the reader must surely empathize with my protagonist.
I spin a story about soon and nearly and next time, as a sub-plot burying all the nows, heres, and these moments.
I re-imagine a story about coming home and letting go as if penning those words will somehow get me there or make me do it.
I write out lines as I commute or stand in line, always on, always connected, always scrolling, thoughts always churning.
In the spaces between me and others I tell stories of distances and differences, secretly knowing I could rework the verbs to be about closeness and humanity and all that we have in common.
But mostly I write an unending line of silent wishes for a change of authorship.
A fresh draft from a new seam of inspiration,
New characters with updated personalities,
Re-worked plot lines of confidence and prosperity of spirit.
A story where I write it as I walk,
Step, by step, by step,
I write it as I walk.