Once, long ago, I wanted to be a writer. Now all I want to do is write.
Thoughts like fish that I catch and release. The faint trace of their escape in the water lasting only as long as my raised heartbeat, a splash rippling the silence that no one else hears.
Many years from now, perhaps, someone else will catch this fish, someone more skilled, more sincere, a true fisherman, who will know what to do. (It won't really be the same fish by then - it'll be older, plumper - but never mind). He will gut it, clean it, do all that is necessary, and hang it among the other trophies above his mantelpiece, memories with gills, a bookshelf of ideas no longer in swim. It is his right; he is entitled to his kill. It takes nothing from his merit that I got there first.
Sometimes it troubles me to think that no one will ever know this, no one will remember my catch, because a fish set free does not count.
Sometimes I look at other people's fish - the dead eyes, the gasping mouth - and think they look familiar.