The factions of me are at war tonight: the head jockeying for position in the South, the heart (that plucky stubborn underdog) raising reinforcements for a surge towards the highlands. These armies are always circling lately, each one trying to land their flag in the muddy terrain of my center.
Over the dim of the battle, the threads of a long-ago conversation drift back to me. Lucia and I, drinking coffee and talking about the borderlands. About how some of the best places in the world occur where people and thoughts and music and art and ideas and recipes burst through the imaginary lines on the map, like water through the dyke, burst through and rush against one another, forming the most perfect newborn in their airborn collision.
It seems to be my task this year to bleed my own borderlands together and see what rises to the surface.