"The Consequences of Learning How to Fly."

Maybe boycotting this thing is the wrong solution for someone like me. Someone bloated with emotion. Someone whose inner voices sprint from rib to rib to rib. Unfettered, unfiltered and so fucking loud.

Maybe I need a verbal garbage disposal instead.

Or maybe that thinking is also skewed. Maybe this space is neither a hole nor a dump where I can dispose of my excess words.

Maybe it's more like the collection plate at church.

And if this is the collection plate, then I should be the poor widow in the parable. The one who places her last two pennies in the offering pile because she understands the economy of the universe.

She understands that an empty purse is never truly empty. Not in the divine sense. She relinquishes what little she has. Because she knows that she's not sacrificing it or throwing it away. She's investing it. So she pulls out the linty insides of her pockets with a grin. Not only because she's grateful for what she has, but also because she's grateful for what's to come.

That heart is untouchable.

Everything else is human. Predictable. The rich religious people who tossed hefty checks into the plate get a nod. A "well, of course you did." But this woman — she deserves the story.

I believe in the divine economy of money. I believe in endless resources. In the glorious provision of birds. How abundantly they're fed. I believe in sparrows. The significance of every tiny, forgettable creature. The blood jolting through each one.

What I mean to say is this:

If I believe in the divine economy of money, shouldn't I also believe in the divine economy of words? An endless Source of creativity?

Shouldn't I have faith enough to deposit what little I have? And shouldn't I offer those meager words with gratitude instead of with the haughty attitude of someone who believes she has enough to spend and some to waste?

What good are my words if I hoard them and have thousands to spare? How dare I write less — or write the same amount as my 2010 self — because I'm afraid I'll have no words left for my "real" writing? Shouldn't I continue to offer my words here and seek the Universe to multiply my words so that I will have plenty to fill all those phantom books I mention so uninhibitedly?

Ha. What books.

It's funny. How nonexistent they are. Those books are partly figments of my delusions of grandeur. But those delusions are what fueled Rilke when he didn't write for 9 years. Nine fucking years and not a drop of ink.

But he pressed onward. Pushed every hindrance aside. Out of his way. Because he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to know Divinity more.

My honest, offensive opinion is this: Giving up is a moral failure worse than murder.

Note to my 2011 self: Don't quit. The Universe wants more than anything for you to claim your unique destiny and pursue your art, but there are malicious forces that couldn't bear such a powerful, redemptive story that pays homage to the Unknown and to the spiritual realm. So they're out to get you. They pick at you with your insecurities. They stab you with lies.

Don't waste your time by humoring them. Just keep going. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop.

And by "you," I don't just mean me.

I mean you, too.