Rilke said to not write love poems. So I won't. If Mr. Rilke were around today, I'm sure he'd replace "poems" with "blog posts." I will follow his advice. No more mourning lost loves on Blogger, folks. They are lost; I need to find something else.
So what are my something elses?
My something elses are stories. They are early morning hours, alone with my thoughts. They are learning languages and becoming gastronomical and remembering how to French braid my growing hair. They are writing letters. They are forcing myself to look inside myself, which requires me to step outside of my room and embrace what has always been there. They are embraces of all kinds. They are countless minutes spent upon rocks and in fields and under stars. They are definitions. They define my freedom.
To be free from what has tied me down will be nothing short of miraculous. To be free is to rebel; to rebel is the only way to approach something else.
How do we become infinitely interesting?
How do we become?