I haven’t even started to write and yet the post editor insists on a title.
How would I even know that?
How would I summarize or describe something that doesn’t yet exist?
It would be different if I came with intent, and I suppose it’s not unreasonable to think I might.
You probably would.
But I just showed up. I didn’t know what else to do.
I once knew someone who believed in intention, but when intention dried up and blew away, she went to live in a box.
I didn’t know I should be sad to see her go.
When she left I turned on the television…the CD player…the radio…anything to fill the silence she left behind.
But silence infected with noise often begins to take on a life of its own, and on the day I couldn’t get into my kitchen because the noise was taking up too much space, I turned them all off and slumped to the floor.
It was there I discovered that my thoughts were louder than the TV had ever been, and the volume control knob on them was broken.
They lived in technicolor and surround sound; they were relentless and merciless.
I eventually broke a window to let some of them out so my head wouldn’t explode.
Sometimes it exploded a little anyway.
You probably noticed.
I wonder if Ms. Intentionality knew this could happen, and if she would find it worth checking out of that box to explore the option.
Sometimes it’s better to break a lease than to be driven insane by four tight walls and a ceiling that’s too low and an impossible standard.
Then again, it would probably frighten her to realize I’m no longer afraid to harness the crazy and see where it runs.