Day 129

To this day there are still a handful of don'ts in this world.

Don'ts left over from the old world.

Don't walk on graves - that one is just basic respect.

Don't curse a sailor at sea, which can be expanded to simply watching your words.

One don't however, has no practical explanation in our modern and sensible world.

If you should find a faerie ring upon a patch of land, you don't raise any structure over top of it.

Builders, inspectors and permit givers who work in parts old enough to remember such secrets will all agree.

Neither house nor wall nor tower nor barn may be built upon a faerie's ring . . .

For them that would ignore this warning, there exist only one word in reply:

Don't.

Day 113

How many doorways have you walked through in your life?
Don't bother answering. I know you've lost count. That is, if you bothered to keep count.
Which ... sorry if you tried to, but that number never really mattered.
It never does.
Even if you hovered there, between two rooms. Or a hallway and a room. Waiting. Worried. Hopeful. Whatever.
That archway in the wall that stood as an imaginary barrier between where you once found yourself and where you were going mattered very little.
You were only ever anticipating what was to come, or regretting what was behind.
And now another doorway appears.
And you are between two rooms.
So if you must hover now, be brief.
If you must take a moment to grieve or groan, do it. Take that moment.
But do not, for a moment, mistake a hallway for a home.
These are transitions. And anyone who's had to sit through a poorly staged musical will tell you, the meat is in plot, not the scene change.
Your life, for good or for ill, lies in the room before you.
And you putting off life any longer than you need to, does you no favors.
So take a breath and then another. Then turn the knob and walk through the door.
Who knows what life you may start living.

Day 118

Things I won't be writing about tonight:

Karaoke

Money

That odd foggy borderland where you meet ex lovers for civil discourse

Pears

Alcoholism

The Hedgehog's dilemma

Meeting the drunk and disorderly on the streetcar

Exhaustion

Aging

Trees being very quick creatures, but only when you see them at their own pace

Ghost stories

Uncertainty in politics

Losing time

Regret

Remorse for lacking regret

Regretting not having remote for not having regretted something

Scrolling through text conversations, realizing your non-commitment to the relationship should have been more clear to you.

Did I already mention pears?

...

It's good to get these things out of the way, from time to time.

The "what not to do"s. It helps one zone in closer to what one will write about...

So. 

What's left?

Day 117

I'm writing myself some passes for the week.

A pass for sleeping in.

A pass for an extra twenty minutes of lounging.

A pass for multiple wing nights, even though we have food at home!

A pass to worry about money.

A pass to be sad about a girl, this comes with a time limit.

A similar slip exists for feeling sorry for myself, but I try not to give out too many of those.

I don't just have passes.

I also have permission slips.

Slips that, once signed, give me permission to do a lot of things.

I've given myself permission to write.

Permission to go out and feel confident.

Permission to start so many projects and to fail as often as I need to - just to so long as I'm failing bigger each time.

Permission to be fond of people, and to express my fondness in sincere yet quirky ways.

Permission to distance myself from people, because I value independence.

Permission to be excited by an idea. As well as the permission to throw out that that same idea the moment it no longer excites me!

Permission to be both centre stage and supporting cast, and be confident in my ability to be both.

Permission to see myself as better than I am, without hating who I've been.

Permission to want. To try. To do.

Permission to be overwhelmed by love and permission to let go of it within breaths of each other.

I often need permission, before I will feel comfortable doing anything with confidence.

So I'm giving it. I permit myself.

And I have the forms to prove it.

Day 115

Our story starts, as so many do, with our hero to be lounging in a bathrobe. 

Waiting between periods of sleep, for life to happen to him.

Naps break up the day and the weather is uneventful.

No word comes from the outside, offering quests nor calls to adventure.

Our hero simply feeds and entertains himself. Before settling in for another bout of sleeping.

See?

F@#! realism.

Day 111

So why do you put up with them? Even though they worry and frustrate you like nobody else can ...
Because I remember the time before we met, and I remember the time after.
And after meeting her I just couldn't stop wishing that I knew her when we were young. Regretting every day up till this one for not being the grand adventure we would've made it.
I would've laughed harder, ran faster, jumped higher. I would've wrestled dreams back to the ground and proudly said "I'm not done with you yet!" I wouldn't have tried to grow up so damn quickly, with her in my childhood. Asking if there was time for one more game...
I think on that knowing that there is a worse fate than meeting you playmate after you've grown up. And that would be missing her in my adult life too.
Why would I willingly do that to myself?
It's just too damn masochistic. Even for a writer.

Day 110

All the while, the mirror was made of paper.
So when in her fury she attacked the pane of reflective glass, it crumpled around her fist instead.
Unsatisfied, she struck out again, and the paper mirror crumpled further. She would kick and strike at it, transforming the long sheet into a crude origami.
She then tried throwing the mirror, but it being paper, it simply floated harmlessly to the floor.
Her anger still was unabated, she wanted the thing to break! To shatter! That would satisfy!
She approached the roughened paper mirror with every intention of stomping the thing into oblivion, but was given pause by what she saw.
It was her. She saw her reflection. Even bent and folded into a this warped mess she could recognize herself.
Try as she might, she would always see herself in this thing.
She un-crumpled the page, then, and set out to smooth it as best she could.