Maybe Solitary

Maybe I wanted to show the absolute beautiful terror of being a teenager.

The feeling of going to not one and not two and not even three high schools but four.

The feeling of telling a love goodbye and seeing another love ruin herself and hearing another died.

The mystery and the complexity and the infuriating frustration of love and loss and love renewed and lost again.

Maybe I wanted to put a little mystery in this. Mystery that lasts. Sorta like life. Sorta like being a teen. Sorta like every breathing and living day.

Maybe I didn’t want to spell things out because that’s how life is, whether you’re living in Wheaton, Illinois or Solitary, North Carolina.

Maybe I wanted to show a lot of confusion and a tiny bit of hope and a whole batch of terror.

Maybe I had a whole big ball of storylines and backstory and questions & answers and intrigue and diversions.

Maybe I have an answer for everything.

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m just a really awful writer. Awful for trying 
something different. Awful for trying to sum up an experience in a unique way. 
The experience of being a teen. The beautiful terror of the teenage experience.

Maybe sales are the only way to measure greatness. So be it. So long and so farewell.

So what.

Maybe all along I knew what I was doing. And maybe I was finally allowed to do it. And maybe, in the end, I knew I couldn’t do anything better.


Maybe every day of every life is full of mystery, and doesn’t follow a plan, and doesn’t fit into a box. Maybe it doesn’t end up all rosy. But maybe, possibly, God intervenes and offers some hope and some light. For those willing to wait. 
For those who make it to the end.

But not always.

And sometimes, even after that little bit of light, the darkness settles in again. Waiting for the critics and the cynics. Waiting for the night to fall. Waiting for all those inevitable maybes.

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