Meandering 20s

I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to love something with such a ferocious, singular focus, that when they speak about it, their eyes light up with such an intricately tortured, but hopeful anxiety about the future. I would describe it almost as seeing someone parched dry in an expansive desert, trudging forward with grit and a thirst for what is natural and essential to their survival — water. I mean, have you ever seen someone so single-mindedly determined to execute their passion that even the gait of their walk carries the frays of their rough-edged dream?

And with such pure, raw talent — untouched yet by the punishing claws of society, clammed in by structures of power.

I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to throw myself into the depths of something I love doing, because I had somehow settled into a forlorn fear that I would be disappointed in return. Can I confront writing in the same way? Can I let myself be vulnerable through the words scratching across paper, and trust in myself to deliver, to fail to deliver, to touch, to connect, to speak, to reach, and to be heard?