I’ve stepped back, walked into the sunset. It was my time.
I turn to look back.

Taking stock:
The burning isn’t iron-hot, now. My tongue has nearly forgotten the taste of ashes. I have begun to fill the hollow once carved in my soul. Green things are growing.

Anger. Was it worth the anger?
I could say, no. I could say, I was young, I made mistakes.
But really, who would I be fooling?

We burned bright, we burned hot, and I wouldn’t change a minute of it.
I was forged in the heat of that anger.
The person I was, under that pressure, without appearances or gift-wrapping, was my self.

That hair’s-breath between order and catastrophe became my North Star.

When I was young I cursed, I ranted, I raved.
Perhaps we were mad.
Perhaps I was mad.
I threw myself at every opportunity with the ferocity of a linebacker
With my entire being

Perhaps it was too much.
OR
The prize was worth the price.

I realize now that in truth, I know only one thing absolutely:
1. I’m not done growing yet.