A friend of mine mentioned that the year of the rooster is the year of changes. The year of awakenings.
How providential then that one of the first things Neil Gaiman talked about at the Writer's Forum I attended was change. I took a leave. I left it all behind. And I listened to him.
"The meaning of the thing that tells you that time is happening." Change.
I begin to ask myself things. Things that have always been at the back of my mind. Could there be such a thing as a part-time writer? I have a notion that there's no such thing. It's not impossible. But it doesn't seem like its a commitment otherwise.
Listening to him speak about writing, the passion of writing. I've never felt happier. But my fear that it's just a pipe dream haunts me.
The years heap upon me. The years displace me and show me where I've been, the weight of my accomplishments and losses. The opportunity cost of the time I've spent. I don't grow younger. I inch towards death. And the question still recurs (as it always has): "Is this your life?"
The "Archaic Torso of Apollo" by Rilke resounds. That last verse that cuts through the rest:
"...and not from every edge explode
like starlight: for there's not one spot
that doesn't see you. You must change your life."
The year of change, in a half-twist, smiles at me as I walk on.