In which I ramble about the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of using a notebook and pen to draft a story.
I've always been an avid daydreamer. I can vividly recall summer afternoons standing idly in the right field of a little league game, mitt and hand on knees, waiting for a fly ball that almost never came. During those long fifteen minute spans spent standing, waiting, doing absolutely nothing, my ten-year-old mind had plenty of time to gaze up at the cloud-filled sky and contemplate the mysteries of the universe. I remember thinking about the strangeness of life, about what life as an adult might be like, about the existence of a higher power.
Time is our enemy. It is a relentless beast that can never be stalled, that never retreats, but will continually march forward at an even pace, dragging us all (the universe included) to an inevitable death. Yikes.
It has been a long time coming, but it is time to learn to disbelieve in the legend of yourself. I know this might seem strange after a lifetime of being told you are special or growing up in a world where very literally anyone could potentially become famous overnight (no matter how fleetingly), but the truth of the matter is, you are no one.
And so we fade back into the familiar. Give up on that morning workout. Go back to eating carbs. Shelve that new novel idea. Scrap that cover letter. Rejection hurts and so does admitting to ourselves that we aren't as great as we thought we were. And so often, we fail to even fail.
We can't always spend our lives in one place. Sure, some of us do and there's nothing wrong with that. But for many people, at some point in their lives, they will move on from certain places throughout their lives. Be it from a house, from a job, from a city, from a state or even a country. For some, it is inevitable.