I believe in fate but I also believe I am able to write my own. There is this strange winding staircase that I am on in my mind and up, up I go. I’ve been here before but I’ve always stopped to glance back and ponder. Not now. I turn my gaze towards the next step and I don’t care what is behind me. I never should have in the first place; I wonder if it has been what’s always held me back – that penchant to re-examine my past.

What ‘was’, is no longer viable and important. It’s the stair that I am on and the next one I tenderly place my size 6 upon that holds me captive. I want to know what’s at the top yet even as I think on what it could be…I am writing out the script.

I’ve got many possible storylines and they pile around me and fall backwards down the stairs and into the past if I decide they just won’t do. I keep on writing and imagining until it feels right. Scenes take form and shape; I colour them with vibrant shades of love, hope and positive outcomes with a few struggles thrown in along the way to make it interesting. People enter into the story and I frantically implore dialogue. Chapter after chapter is scribbled out and before I know it, it’s happening around me.

It’s a live movie; there are takes and re-takes, re-writes and I play them over and over until I’m satisfied it may just work.  I am conducting my future on imaginary paper while taking it step-by-step to where I need to be. When I finally get to the top, my path will be written and published.

Only then will I be able to actually begin it.

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