There was a time when I had imagined that the world (as I understood it back then) was waiting on me: eager for my savvy insight, impatient for my benevolent commitment.
But as in any decent fictional autobiography, our hero (that’s me) only later understands that there never was going to be a true embrace. Rather, and perhaps to the delight of many, what felt like bravery was finally exposed as circumstantial ignorance; what sounded of wisdom was little more than my own boorish echo.
Still, even now, the desire to do something, to do anything important and worthwhile, drives me without end to turn back and inward. Inward so to find, perhaps, some hidden place that might well push me to do better, or compel me towards greater vulnerability, or even, if luck would so favor it, help me to love more deeply