Forever. Well, well, well.
As I frequently refer back to The List to find which ingredient is ready to be tossed around in the ole mental mixing bowl along with long-winded phrasing, overly embellished metaphors, and a gluttonous amount of over-worked adjectives and punctuation, I can't help but see how much is left to write about (which, I venture, makes the last line of The List most succinctly applicable). AND SO...I have to be honest about my "brilliant" blogspiration: this shit is going to take FOREVER!
My eyes keep wandering up to the last line of my Blog's description regarding its own purpose: "...unless I grow bored of it before then; in which case, it will be just another crumpled idea left to litter the antigravity of cyberspace."
I'm a lazy writer. I don't know why this is, but it is. What's really crazy is that I have a special gift that most writers would kill to have: I do not get writer's block. If you are a writer, you understand that this is nothing less than a super-power, and you are also nodding in agreement that, yes, you would indeed kill to have it. My point is: I have no sound excuse for my complete lack of ambition.
I currently have a four book series in the works. A lot of research has gone into this project. I have written a decent portion of the first book, but the ugly truth of it is that I should have finished Book One and at least be halfway through Book Two by now.
I have these whole other worlds living inside of me; worlds filled with people that I love and others that I loathe, and they are all depending on me to not only bring them into full existence, but to tell their stories with grace and honor. I can feel them getting impatient, and god knows they have every right to be. Even the persons that have yet to be born - in fact, especially those that have yet to be born - are squirming and scratching on the walls of my mind, yet I continue to skillfully circumvent their demands. Why?! It certainly isn't because I don't want to bring these people and their surrounding worlds to life. I do. I think.
But not enough, it seems; in fact, as I type this, I am understanding that my problem begins and ends with a bout between want and need. There is truly a NEED to record the fates of these other "fictional" worlds deeply fitted into my soul and psyche, but the truth is: I lack THE WANT, because if more of the want was there, the ambition would be, too. Right?
But - unfortunately for the inhabitants of these other worlds relying on my ambition for their survival - Need just doesn't quite present as passionate an adventure as the seductive taunts of Want. In this way, humans can be so stupid.
I am human.
Even as I write this, my mind's groping fingers fondle "forever" as if it is a real thing. It's not...certainly not if one fully considers the limitations placed on the human condition by the fabled account of time we keep. Sure, my soul may be a glittering speck of Forever, but my soul can't write a fucking book.
Even still, I tempt Forever's mere notion by placing it in the hands of the moment and arrogantly assuming that there will be more moments from whence this moment came.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Time is a tricky (and wholly human) thing. It gives and gives, until it's ready to stop giving, and it has no obligation to warn us when we are about to be checked off of its "recipient list." Forever does not exist for humans. It is a cold concept that warms us with unrealistic flames of a promised future. The one thing we all KNOW is an illusion, is the one thing in which we find the most complacency.
Tomorrow won't be shocked when it doesn't come, my friends, because Tomorrow knows nothing of itself. This is a truth that makes complete sense, right?
Wanna hear a riddle that is an absolute ass-curdling truth? Here it is: we know less about tomorrow than we know of anything else...yet we continue to feel entitled to it.
|"The Mayan's 2012 ain't got nothin' on Tomorrow." -Aubree|