I actually can’t make you any promises. Promises, I’ve learned, are not things of substance. They are not these shiny guarantees we’ve convinced ourselves they are. They are flowery words, glittery ideas, hopes stenciled on notebooks and blank pages that we cling to when things start to feel bleak. They sound pretty, something to put atop a melodic tune, call it a lullaby.
Call it whatever you want. But promises are not concrete. Promises are just words.
And I know what you’re thinking, “You’re a writer! All you do is regurgitate words.”
And you’d be right.
I am constantly dissecting my own inane thoughts and stories, putting memories permanently to paper. But my words are not actions. My words are not being in the thick of it. Being in the trenches with you, gaining the strength to somehow shovel our way back home. My words are just that —…
View original post 690 more words