But that would be lying. It is such a gift to look back, especially if I could manage to do it without judgment. My focus has waned. My creative flow has rolled in torrents and trickles, sometimes leaving dry, cracked beds in its absence. I have found courage that disappeared in less than 24 frames. I have looked deeply at death, seeing both the wonder and grace of its internal workings while being ripped to shreds by its barbed cloak as it passed me, leaving me to understand my grief transcends the moment of loss, but remains one with it. I raised a child to adulthood and watch as the other’w wings dry and become flight worthy, disguising the infinite facets of my terror behind my pride because it is the only thing I possess large enough to conceal my fears. I made it to an age I never planned for, and now I am slapping up scaffolding faster than a builder who has shitty ethics. I welcome myself back to this space to search for pieces to reinforce my build; any solid scrap will do.