Sometimes, my lungs don't seem to work.
No matter how deeply I breathe, the air seems to catch before it fully inflates my body. Perhaps my belly is too full; it pushes the air back out before it can satisfy. I feel desperate for it.
Maybe you just have to let it in, let it out, not drink it hungrily. The hungriness invites scarcity. Maybe. These days, everything feels like a maybe, a gutless professorial ghost hovering above the body of my words, blunting the edge of certainty with a thousand cautious modifiers.
Graduate school in the next few years? Maybe. Writing? Yes, but what kind? How? Am I happy? Well, scoffs the professor inside me, Define your terms.