In utero and in years.

Sitting here all morning with a high heart rate - notes, articles, terrifying messages from fellow authors on publishing, begging the world to hear you in the cacophony of noise. 

Realizing, after some panic, that it is all already written. I have already determined never again to strive - to beg, to plead, to labor against the deaf void which has no ears to hear. My terms + the Sacred Lord’s will - my only parameters. 

There is a path - who knows where it leads but I know what is on it. It is only myself. What am I afraid of? 

Do I not already have everything I need? Has there been a moment since I wrote that first line - “There is a man in the wood” -  that I have warred with myself? That I have had to drag myself to the work? Trick myself into the labor? Am I not delighted to spend my days thus, when I have spent so many in thankless toil? 

Striving, the thought sends a shiver down my spine. I remember it too well. 

“Please believe me and don’t see the holes!” And if they do see the holes, “Please trust that what remains is worthy!” 

“Please believe me. Give me only one chance. I swear I will impress, if you only believe me!” 

It seems I have spent too much of my life advocating my intelligence to the skeptical mercy of men. 

But now there are no more men. I am the only one left standing. And there are no more holes, to condone or to cover. Only a damn good book. And yet, not the best of what I am capable. Not yet. I know I am aging well.

There is no one to say “It has to be the whole world or nothing at all…” 

• “Millions or failure…” 

• “Profit or loss…”

• “Proof or nothing…” 

There is only me at this desk, my namesake smiling coyly down from her painted frame. This desk. This space heater. This pen. This keyboard. This notebook. This cup of coffee, long grown cold. 

This mind. 

I have been built for this, in utero and in years. The path is here. I need only to walk it. I have been bought from bondage with blood. I am terrifying in my tenacity. Haunting in authenticity. My word mightier than the sword, the dollar, the bottom line.

What have I to fear?