I'm sitting at a table in the conference room in my company, eating my usual lunch (steamed carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower with veggie burgers, no bun, parmesan cheese, garlic powder, salt). I've finished Just Kids by Patti Smith, with the sort of ringing bell echo in your heart that comes when you finish a book that really resonates with you, and I'm staring out the window, thinking.
I've made and discarded so many identities in my life, skinning myself with each new incarnation to try to erase the old sins and wrinkles and crusted scars that always seem to reassert themselves after a while, to the point where I think they must be deep and structural, because no matter how many bridges or pages I burn, no matter how far I run, I always end up myself, of course.
I pick up my pen, and begin to write again.
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