I’m tired.

It’s that good tired…where you stayed up way past your bedtime to read one more chapter, one more page.

I’ve slowly been working my way back to the novel…growing up I consumed novels like other kids swallowed Fred Flintstones Vitamins. Then after graduating from University the novel and I went in different directions.

I found the medium too…predictable; it didn’t take risks: as B.B. King would say The Thrill Is Gone. I kept reading comics like other people binge Netflix tv shows and poetry and non-fiction. So much non-fiction I architect the Jenga stacks of books beside my bed with a Frank Gehry flourish.

But this year I’ve slowly been coming back around. I kinda miss the novel. My arms are not crossed but they’re not open either…shoved deep into my front pockets. It’s enough to start the conversation about the good times we had…and to see if there are any sparks for future fires.

I like having more questions than answers; none of us can put “the future” into a GPS yet I’m ok being this vulnerable. Let’s see where this goes. Chapter 1, Page 1.

I like being this tired…because I’m not tired of hope.

-28-

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Also published on Medium.