I wait for the day when I can sign my name into the corner of something. It could be a page, canvas, a stretch of bare sand just before a wave changes my name into nothing. But currently there is nothing. There is nothing I can claim, no solid proof of my past. Will this feeling pass? Maybe I need to let go of the desire to prove that I can produce something tangible, something lasting, something bigger than myself. Maybe I need to figure out my name before I commit to signing it in ink. You'd think I'd have it figured out by now. You would be wrong.
But let me be right for once. Let me write, once, and let it become a continuous beating. Let the words do the work, even while I'm sleeping. Let the story be told through my veins. Let the pulse of what wants to be told heard. Let me listen with ears that do not judge, that do not censor, that do nothing but hear and give space for the placement of my name. Let me settle in, let me begin.