It’s like opening the floodgates, or holding back the ocean. Which will it be and why?
Driving home my fingers tapped out a rhythmic story on the keyboard of the steering wheel. Alas, no “Save” feature on the dashboard of my Honda, and all my thoughts were left for literary forensics to decipher.
I did have the pleasure of a brief chat with a friend and fellow writer, and learned a bit more about her and her thinking and her dreams. I wish I had the power to encourage and inspire others the way I sadly need these things myself. She is young, and I am not, and any idealism I may have had is tempered by experience and lack of knowledge and of time. Strange, but one often finds oneself in explaining him/herself to others, and a flash of recollection hit shortly after class. My friend asked about my state of mind, based perhaps on the latest writings in this log. I almost feel elation at the thought of achieving enigma status; a personal image I have strived for in my young and wilder days. How am I to explain though, that I haven’t really planned this, and control is not exactly in my grasp. I really am at least two people, because I’ve learned not to attempt to compromise them into one hypocritical shattered personality. Each free to go their own way, they are a happy lot, and there is little I can do about it anyway. I probably prefer the lone eccentric writer of the group, but cannot in fairness deny my other children their run across the field, for Susie Writer is prone to leave chores unattended and even fail to eat, so other siblings must make up for what she lacks.
Or I suppose of course–though I may look quite matronly and normal–that I may simply just be getting more weird with age.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology