Writing. Why? It’s a handy way to remember things. Coming up with little rhymes in your head can help remembering. But sooner or later you have an awful lot of rhymes to remember. In cases like that it helps to write the new rhymes down until you remember them. Not only that rhymes can evolve over time. Going back to see the original thought years later can be rather eye opening. Especially those times subtle hints of the future evolution are apparent in the original script. When this started is nearly lost in the mists of my youngest years. I wrote a Steven King type horror story for some class assignment back in second or third grade that really got the classmates talking after the teacher read it out loud in class. But it was the thrill of creating it along with her reading it out loud that moved me, any recess accolades were tertiary at best. I was only glad that I wasn’t the only one my writing scared. The story took on a life of it’s own.
As does any such active motion. Once the marble is rolling it’s hard to keep up with everywhere it rolls. It’s enough to make one hesitate to go anywhere near a marble to start with. Now that this one’s going I wonder where today’s trail blazed will end up. Probably on the other side of a soon to be burned out forest. Take heart there’s little wind. I may not be as hot as I need to be. There has been a lot of rain lately, the trail may have to be beaten into the mud along this particular stretch. Heavy feet with clinging clods, frequent stops to catch my breath. Muddled thoughts, muddled writing. It’s not the distance, it’s the direction. Distance denotes time. Time is but an illusion. Time is it’s own distance. Direction is endless. Direction is the arrow pointing to infinity. In one of an infinite number of possible directions. One defined azimuth proving all the others by omission. If one can be so can all. If infinity is time isn’t. And yet time is for in time there’s room for all and all that are come in time. As soon as there’s room.
And there’s always room to write. More often than not the room exceeds the script. The page exceeds the rage. If the rage ever even makes it to the page. Sometimes the man talks himself back down off the ledge. Safely back into the window. Still near but from harm’s way. Leaving room for images. Beware the graven images. Imagination’s one thing we need not carve in stone. Imaginations belong in the mind not in the room. In the mind they can leap out in three dimensions without taking a carnal toll. Materially manifest they occupy. Occupation is existence. We are all occupied. Even those without an occupation. Which brings up an interesting question. What are you occupied with? For the past hour or so one of the things I’ve been occupied with has been ruminating on these fodder forbes for my mind. Or as I like to look at it, thinking out loud. (quietly on paper) (OK on line) If you’re still here reading I’d like to thank you for occupying some of your time with me.