I want to hold more in my hands but my fingers are too clumsy. Entire paragraphs slip through my grasps--people pass right by without notice or attention.
I want to take larger steps, but I've yet to grow into the limbs of an adult whose feet are much bigger than mine. So, I fumble. I fall. I get back up because I'm trying to know what it feels like to be a body that travels intentionally.
I want. I want. I want. I. I. I. When is the story ever about anything else?
Probably that moment when you realize the sound of your own stories bore the shit out of you.