This is true.
In the past forty-eight hours I have cried nine times. I cried when I dropped a yellow M&M on my blue shirt and it left a mark. I cried reading Cheryl Strayed's “The Love of my Life.” I cried thinking about the fact that my last workshop is in two days. I cried thinking about the fact that I might cry during my last workshop. I cried because I couldn’t stop crying. I cried when my mother told me my writing was textured because that was such a beautiful thing to say and she is always so kind. I cried listening to Jason Mraz because it reminded me of college and how that was once something that is now nothing. I cried when I thought about grad school and how wonderful it has been and how soon it will be nothing, a scatter shot of fading memories and remember when’s.
For weeks I have been putting off this final Storystorm, responding to Amy’s emails asking when she can expect it with flustered excuses: a story due, twelve papers to grade, conferences to conduct, essays to read.
This is the truth: I don’t want to write my final Storystorm because I don’t want it to end.
I don’t want any of this to end.
Continue reading at Barnstorm.