What the Blackbird told the Crow.

It's funny how little you realize about yourself and your quirks until confronted by someone who has the exact same impulses and reactions as you.
Working ourselves into the ground we are.
This pair of us. My sisters and my not-blood twin from another planet person who show me precisely how hard I am throwing myself against the concrete wall by hurling themselves at it with their own perfect intensity.
What are we doing?
We are young, healthy, strong, sexy as hell women, and we are bludgeoning ourselves to shit over things that we really shouldn't let have so much sway over our happiness.
I want to tell you all of the reasons why she is marvelous and capable and brilliant and a gemstone of a person in a world full of gravel, but I would have to say the same things to my own reflection to do so, and I am so very allergic to that.
But it must be.
For I am worried. I am worried because I see in us the volatile, illuminated terror of real creative progress. I see in us the abilities to move and shake and french kiss the world out of blindness.
You are stunning.
I am stunning.
We are taking this year by the ears and throttling it into submission. It may kill us on its way down, if we aren't careful.
Tomorrow could be the last day. Stop putting off all of those words you tell yourself you'll say someday. Do that thing you're so scared of. Get on the plane. Write the goddamn novel. Kiss the girl. Kiss the boy. Wear the dress. Eat the cake. Run the marathon.
Do it, and do it because you want to, and afterward, celebrate how glorious your existence is. Because I think it's bloody amazing.
And quit banging your head against the wall to prove to me I should stop too. I'm stopping. I'm stopping. I'm stopping.