I’ve spent the past two weeks on this blog reflecting on texts I’ve recently read, providing me with an easy anchor (and likely weighing those authors down from whom I’m unapologetically building ideas). And now I find myself with no text. No words already written. No pages from which I can affirm my existence. No author to guide me. I am cast adrift on the great sea of possibility, desperately seeking jetsam (heck, I’ll even take flotsam!) to keep me afloat.

I’m so lost I’ll reference Cloud Atlas: “My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?” It is in this common humanity, in this ocean of boundless, depthless mystery and beauty that we may always be reborn.

And so I shall rise, carrying with me the wreckage of past travelers, forging my own ship, flapping its sails until the wind sings me a dirge and blows in another direction.

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