You were eight years old. You knew everything you would ever need to create. Your mom and dad were both at work. The baby-sitter took you to an old diner. The lady at the front desk gave you paper and markers.
The baby-sitter ordered two chocolate milkshakes.
Decades later, you remember how paradise felt. You…
You know what to do. Draw your star. Tell us your story.
*****
Thank you to Lynette Sheppard, who was the one writer to respond to my request for responses to last week’s Breakthrough. Is there anyone else out there?
I make promises to myself.
I will write. I will no longer watch ANY news programs. I will walk every day. I will please myself rather than everyone else. I will dress up just for me. I will create art as an act of civil disobedience. I will stand tall. I will forgive myself.
My promises flow from best intentions and fevered dreams. They hold clarity and focus like a clear goblet holds water. Cyclically, predictably, they fall to the earth and shatter.
All I can do is gather up the shining fragments and cradle them with reverence in my cupped hands. And begin again. I promise…. — Lynette Sheppard
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