They say that if you practice something for ten years you automatically become an expert in it.

I don’t believe that is necessarily true, and yet …

I have practiced that long, as of roughly today, and I really am an expert at … this. I can feel it.

For what it’s worth, and whatever it means.

The question of whether my expertise is useful for anything is left as an exercise for the Reader. I’ve heard things which suggest that it is; thank you brother and thank you sister. I’ve also heard the sound of nothing, echoes in the void. Whenever you ask me a question that I’ve already answered fully here

I know you’re not hearing me, and I think:

you say you miss me, and I take it at face value, but the assertion is not actually supported by the evidence.

I think about the man I was when I wrote that first post, and the girl I was with when I wrote it, and the place, and the event that motivated it.

I feel the time and life and sentences flowing at me and through me and past me.

I don’t feel any impulse to stop the flow.

It might be that the flow tributaries into a larger one at some point.

Or not.

I have no announcements to make on the subject upon this occasion. But I mark it, note it anyway and I whisper to myself.

Letting go, letting go, letting go.