It all started. It all started at some point. But it all ends now. And so it begins.

I have been waking up every single day, and that in itself is enough reason for celebration. The next toast is to getting out of bed, but that is a glass that feels at times too full to lift or too empty to be worth the effort.

That is the moment I have been framing.

All these pictures are pieces of me. I am all these pieces. They are, however, not who I am. I am more than the sum of all of them – these and all the ones I have yet to capture, to discover, to be.

And I will write a novel, one word long or endless streams of undecipherable dialects containing multitudes.

I will learn a new language, perhaps even hundreds, at least so I have enough ways of explaining the act of missing, and how it still leaves me whole, if not whole-r.

I will read all the books, make out stories with their most memorable excerpts – “Your dream life starts here. The careful undressing of love, fates and furies, more than this. A good man is hard to find, and not just because you are gay or queer or [insert word here].” – I took some creative license at the end.

I will do yoga every day, though there are days that feel like months and years and suddenly there is dust collecting on my mat and my allergies are acting up or was that not dust at all?

I will give productivity a meaning that only in its wildest dreams would it ever have it as its definition

What I mean to say is, I will do everything. And that everything will sometimes be nothing, which is another word for everything elevated to its highest potential.

What I mean to say is, I will be. And that being is the only unpredictable constant in life, which is another word for being elevated to its highest purpose.

Everything is purpose. Nothing is constant. Potential is being.

I am. I am. I am. Frozen in these moments, bursting with life, deafeningly quiet, melting into a glass.

I, eventually, rise.

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