“Why can’t there be a beige swan, a brown swan, a black swan, out there?”

I rarely know the title of a piece of writing until I have reached the final full stop. It is only then when it all becomes full circle, and the words rise and the title forms itself like shapes of mist over a hot water lake. It catches form. You see it, you feel it, and you smell it.

You know it.

Today is different. Because I realize that something has forever changed in my writing. It, too, is coming of age I believe, and it is all a bit scary. Far more promising, nonetheless.

I feel it will be hard to get to a full stop this morning. Yet I’d promised myself I would write, every week. No matter if I felt I could, no matter if I felt I wanted to, no matter if I felt scattered, no matter if I had no coherence – as I seem not to have now. It is all because I LOVE writing. It has become a form of therapy for me. It has made me find out how fascinating words and meanings are. It has become my voice. It has remained a constant in my life, even when – or especially when – it was silenced.

I had made a promise to myself I would never stop writing. It hurts when I don’t write. As it hurts when I don’t dance. Yet, life throws all sorts of stories at us. We’re all on a wide open stage here. Wide open stage, sometimes wide open hearts. Sometimes, wide open minds. We’re thrown costumes, and at times we have to literally jump and catch them up in the air, accidentally hitting the poor person standing next to us. “Oh, I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

To go into the realization that we are all right, always, would take another stage, another book. Hopefully not another life, for me to write about. For the sake of this Sunday morning’s precious time, let’s say, sometime we are all right, sometimes we are not.

I can’t seem to find a way to touch the “I’ve got the depression” intelligent line I have come across whilst brushing my teeth. Words change meanings, upon the rareness or surplus, leisure or vigour with which we use them.

My mind is scattered this morning. Up again at 5.30 am with this damn, damn stubborn back pain. Why must the pain take after the beholder, anyway?! Anyway, it’s been damn hard. It’s been almost two months since I am faced with it, every single day. And I’ve got the flu. 41.5 on Friday night and one piece of ride with hospital van – they call it ambulance over here, I like to call it van because I so love road trips! Where was I? Oh yes, a ride to the hospital with the hospital van on Friday night. While up for new discoveries, did you know that 41.5 fever feels like you’re on pot, only without the giggly, funny, funky part?

So I guess, the fact that I did write my Sunday piece, regardless, spokes a bit of what resilience is. Of what persistence is. Of faith. Of the certainty that no matter what life throws at us, there will always be sometruths that shall never go away. Like the certainty right now that I shall keep on writing. And that someday, somehow, there is a way in which I can turn into a full living all the beauty and all the strength of all my today’s not knowing.

PS Misty Copeland gave me the title today.