avo sun

Here I am. I am alive. As of right now, I am born.

What did it take? I wrote some words. I did some things. The things that I did, and the words that I wrote set a process in motion. The beginning of everything.

I imagine a banner unfolding over my head. It reads: welcome to the rest of your life.

I’ll start by telling you something; you and I are connected. You are reading these words moments after they were written. I put them on the page, and you picked them up. I couldn’t do this without you.

I’ll tell you something else. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been sitting in the corner of the room, layers of words and lines and pages piling up inside. Layers, words, piles of words, piles of lines. Lines upon lines. Too many. I needed a witness. Someone to take this load off my chest. And here you are.

There are plenty of people who find, at a certain juncture, that they get to begin again. This is not unusual. An opportunity to be completely re-made presents itself, perhaps later on in life, after the early ardour of youth has passed, and the urgency to keep a certain keen façade has waned. The tight aching pain that we had bound over with enumerable forms of ointment, and which we had almost forgotten, almost thought we had recovered from, returns. Wild, bright, fiery, refusing to be calmed or tended to or medicated. And this, though it seems like an awful regression, becomes our rescue. The pain forces us open.

I danced naked in the street, like King David, like a small child in the rain, like a madman, a leper, like a streaker across the vast grass of entertainment. I was desperate to be seen, to be known, for someone to understand me. I was holding an entire world of twisted pain inside. I needed release. So I did the only thing I knew: I took off my clothes. I lifted up my arms.

Beginning again is a lot like beginning the first time. We take a breath and yell. The force of air into our fresh new lungs is confronting, astonishing. And yet it is not enough. We take another, and another, and another. We had waited so long to take this breath. And now it fills us.

You may know this already. Perhaps you are already one of the re-made ones. You picked yourself up and you walked away. Or you picked yourself up and stayed. Or you picked yourself up and said the words you’d been waiting all your life to say. And then you went and did those things that you had not done yet. You went to the places you had not seen yet. You impregnated yourself with possibility, and then, despite the risk and the naysayers, you carried your potential to full term. Until you were round and full and bursting. Come on!

I make a ritual for you, right here. Let your shoulders drop, your chest stretch wide. Cast your mind over the endless possibilities that await, fill your lungs, and begin.



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