QuickWrite

The night begs for writing. Pleads with me, using every little bit of angst and atmosphere to wrench words from my wrists.

What's the magic formula? One part dim lighting, a dash of intentionally obtuse and heart-wrenching literature, accompanied by vinyl warmth of that album I never connected with but now finally understand.

Every time I am responsible for moving the needle to the beginning of an album, rather than relying on the automatic start feature, I cut off several seconds of the song. I'm starting to appreciate the sudden nature of that facet/ Each time I play songs it's a different experience, depending on where I start.

I am afraid to use "is" when I write. Thanks, grad school! I am also afraid to use "I," but clearly that fear does not control my life.

Life rolls along. I'm listening to more music again. It reminds me of myself, the person I was, connected with who I am now. Each new CD (yes, CD) is a reclamation of sorts, building me back up and stronger than ever, one puzzle piece at a time. The pieces are forged from security, from the ideal melding of dreams, and from the grapplings of adult sorrow. Somehow, those piece are even stronger, the forge heat forcing resilience.

I love Seattle. This deep satisfaction terrifies me. I'm waiting for the next big tragedy. It's not hard to guess what it will probably be, but even that seems manageable. What unknown horrors lurk? Things can't actually be this good.

Or maybe they can. Maybe life can be all sunsets out the window.