Being Honest With Fiction

White lines trail across the sky. I love this. I love how they symbolize the exhaust from airplanes that passed overhead. This is beautiful to me.I love the lines of feathery clouds that leave behind a provocative story of an airplane that flew to a destination unknown.Provocative.That’s a great word, I think. I have not been on a plane in a while. And who knows if I’ll ever be on a flight again?Maybe soon.Maybe not.But I am not here to ante up or play that hand at the moment.All I can do is play the hand I’ve been dealtFor now. . . In my head though . . . I have my bags packed.My bags are always packed in my headAt all times. I am packed and ready to go.I could go at any moment and without notice.Just go . . .I say this because I paused too often and balked at too much and in the end, I watched the best things move on to someone else.And then I sat there asking, “What about me?” I might not have much at the moment. And to be clear, I might be tired and run down. In fact, I know I’m…