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[For the sake of full disclosure, this post was handwritten on a night when I lacked access to cell or internet service. I am transcribing it exactly as it was originally written. Somewhat painfully, I did no editing.]

I am sick and sleepy, a combination that is making me very physically uncomfortable right now and creating some resentment for the blank page I’ve been staring at the past 20 minutes.

I am coming near the end of these truths. I think this gives me even more pause than sometimes happens. I want now more than ever to be profound and eloquent. I want to write truths like poetry. Wise poetry, like Rumi. I have this desire to go out strong. As if, these last several truths will determine the worth of my year.

The truth is, I don’t actually need this process anymore. That is how well it has worked. That is the measure of its profundity. The act of writing these truths has changed me. These truths have changed almost everything about my relationship to me and to life. Quite simply, I want to live. That, to me, is everything. So I don’t really think it matters what I write in these last truths. The work of them has been done. They have brought me to the place where I don’t need them anymore. They have brought me to a place where when given the choice, I would rather enjoy my life than have think or write about my life. There is much to enjoy now. Like the coming moment. When I put down this pen, blow out the kerosene lamp, and lay my fuzzy head down to sleep. It’s a small thing that I will relish because I can.