measured maturity, or the grace in letting go.

I love writing with a wild, fiery passion. I love it with the fierceness of the untamed. When I allow myself to consider alternate lives, I always ask myself the same question; if I could turn back time –

Would I have walked the path of a writer? 

I love it with such ferocity that away from it, my longing brims to the surface. I love it unconditionally like nothing else I have known and no one else I’ve committed to. There are no ifs, buts and maybes. When I allow myself to dream of an alternate reality, I often wonder –

Would I have walked the path of a writer? 

I love it with the innocence of a child. I love it with the fear of an adult, stricken by reality. When I allow myself to think of roads not taken, I return to the juncture that I stood at, five years ago –

Would I have walked the path of a writer?

I love it with a sincerity that moves me to tears. I love it with a curiosity that keeps me constantly starving, hungry for more. When I allow myself to be swept by idealistic, youthful notions, this question persists –

Would I have walked the path of a writer? 

As much as I don’t regret the outcome of today, of the path I have chosen to tread in lieu of what I’d let go of – sometimes the longing returns and the ache lingers for days to no end. Today I met someone who consciously chose to devote her life to the art, as she coins it. “There’s writing, and then there’s living,” she said. She didn’t need to say it twice; I understood her statement perfectly with so much clarity that it hurts.

Would I have walked the path of a writer?

“One day your writing will make a difference.” 

 

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