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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I can remember the days when I used to get up at 4:30 am to write. Ideas desiring to become words drove me from my bed and sat me in front of the flickering light of an old CRT monitor, a fan blowing on the open side of the PC tower in order to prevent it overheating. I remember so many fumbled attempts to make coffee before my eyes even opened and the coffee pot I destroyed by making coffee without water while virtually sleepwalking. I don't know what fueled that need to write. Was it inner turmoil? Passion? Competition? Whatever it was, it's gone. I no longer engage in emotional shouting matches with myself that eventually become poems. No flashes of brilliance get scribbled on scraps of paper to flesh out later. I write, but it’s like I’m writing a check. Paying dues. I don't even make coffee in my sleep anymore. I set up the pot the night before and just flip the switch in the morning. I turn on the laptop and open YouTube and watch videos to avoid writing anything until a deadline forces the requisite number of words into lines. I think I miss the clunky old PC. |
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