How do you know when it's time to blow the dust off your fingertips, take them to a new task, stop digging in the past?
I ask myself this as if I have choices. Everything once started can be stopped, unless it's about survival. I should have been more careful. I gave this motion without building brakes. Now there are too many spaces that would ache.
I am writing this from a place where I could always return, where snow is cold burned into my memory, but all I notice are the dirty edges along the sidewalk. Isn't it beautiful there?
This is why I've been inside for days, sifting through memories piled on bookshelves, desks, walls. I find pictures of nameless relatives and see a new generation of faces. And I watch my mother becoming her mother, or is it me becoming fearful again.
These are some of my answers, but I'm not sure the questions are right.