In which I ramble about the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of using a notebook and pen to draft a story.
This is a dry run. One of many. I know the path so well I can find in the pitch black of night. I have before. I won't last that long tonight, at least I don't think. But I don't know, I never know. Maybe this is not the dry run. Maybe this is the real thing. I can't know. I don't know my future self as well as I should. In truth I'm a little afraid of him. I have no assumptions on who he will be when I meet him in the depths of the grass.
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.
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.
A moment or two ago the way Was well-lit Safe passage When the way turned becoming Obscure Lost Or not but so Far-removed From anything That resembles a welcoming No obvious avenue back to Retraced time long gone Only forward Into exponentially expanding Differential timelines Some with such a bottomless murk Like moths The nearest... Continue Reading →