life is vast(ly) unpublished. i so easily forget that what’s unsaid, unspoken of, unseen, is still there. what we post (in a conversation, or on social media, or here on our blogs) is by nature limited. our lives are expansive. when i share, each post seems to say, i am breathing. among the things i don’t post: how i’m breathing, how i am with myself, how i’m looking at time, who i’m praying for, who i’m close to, from whom i’m growing apart, of the dramas i’m a part of, or the comedy of the day that made me smile, and all the pages of the unique novel i’m a part of, with all the characters, just as you are in yours.