And so a door creaks open slowly, the adolescent whining of the hinges protesting this forced activity after years of relative ease. Three familiar faces in an unfamiliar setting, where I am the fourth.
High hopes have long since eroded. Great expectations withered. All that's left is the sullen refusal to forget what I have; a core of belief in the glimpses of talent I saw over the past 10 years; and the pleasure I get in stringing together words in an order never seen before.
I can write. I'm in a writers' group. Yaayy for me.
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