It's moments like this I remember how stuck I am. I sit on the porch swing, fabric weathered and grey, and wait for the breeze. My grandfather cracks open the breeze door, a scratched plastic bowl full of the same snack he offered me last time in his hand.
"Try this," he says, "you'll like it."
I rarely do.
But this is not the same moment as the other four hundred, the swing is on the other side of the patio and the bowl is green, not red. And I am not the same as the other four hundred times. This is what lets me know that I am not as stuck as I fear, I am never the same.
I always react the same way. I might as well be.
So many other writers (am I that really?) have spoken of those little comforts, of being home in all those places where things are always the same no matter who they've become.
Those other writers aren't me.
They don't have my mind.
So this time I've found a pen, and a bit of paper, and I'm writing myself unstuck. I'm writing myself out of time and away from the creaking of the porch swing. This is not a loop, I have changed. This is not a loop, though I keep coming back.
This is a new story, despite all those characters who act the same.
This one will be a fairy-tale, because I will write it as such.
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