I wonder, have I always been on the move because I am chasing a rabbit I cannot catch? Or because I am the rabbit, running from bush to bush, needing change so I can have hindsight? At what point does our biology beat us into submission and meld with societal norms and say, “You’re in your thirties, isn’t it time to get a job that pays and accept that you aren’t different or special?” Is it the ache in my permanently broken hand or the exhausting flutter in my permanently broken heart that fires more synapses in my brain, and do I believe that I need money and health insurance or creative fulfillment and profound connection more? Some would say, why not both, and I want to believe them. But I have to contend with a lifetime of being told that desire is greed and greed is a sin. Sins send you straight to hell, and that’s even worse than dying. That and the fact that nobody has ever paid me to write anything I wanted to write.