You used to write your words with certainty.  It is rhetoric sprawled across the pages in your line-less notebook, written in the ink of youthful arrogance with the assured handwriting of someone who knew nothing at all.  You pierced the paper with pen, outlined all there was to be in the form of timelines, and lists, and bullet points so fixed, they perforated the pages.  Travel in two year increments, ideas in five year intervals, people sporadically intervening in the white spaces – only when convenient.

You didn’t know that dreams were malleable, you hadn’t realized that philosophies can morph and meander, you could never anticipate that time itself cannot be measured.  And suddenly the words on the page shift, and dance, and wander.  They move on the whims of love, they sift through tribulation, they transform according to people and occasion, they are dangerously susceptible to splendor and sadness.

And all you can do is write and witness, absolving the certainty and embracing what is to be.  This is life outside of the notebook, past the parameters of the page, beyond the imagination that you had thought to be boundless.  You know now, with definitive uncertainty, that you are writing the greatest adventure of all – one that you relish, but cannot to anticipate.

So don’t you ever stop writing.