I wonder if I’ll ever run out of things to say.
If the time will come when I will wake up, pour a cup of tea, and just like when my fingers strain for the last few tiles in a Scrabble bag, I’ll start running out and eventually I’ll be done.
Maybe a person is only given so many thoughts, stories, so many years in the joyful job of make-believe.
Is it possible writing is only part of my journey and one morning I’ll undergo a great switch and suddenly find math is fantastic? No offense to math people, thank you for things like bridges and just about everything functioning in my world, but waking up with a sudden urge to calculate would be nothing short of awful.
Oh God, what if the shift brings me to a cliff with one of those GoPro cameras strapped to my head and I’m in a bat suit thing ready to jump? Maybe right around sixty I’ll be an adrenaline junkie and the thought of writing will seem boring, stupid even. Can that happen?
When I was younger, I loved the movie Somewhere in Time. I still love it, but now I shut it off before he finds the penny. I hate that part. It’s almost as bad as Becoming Jane when they are finally together, and she leaves. . . Sorry, different cinematic disappointment, different post.
For those of you not familiar with Somewhere in Time, the main character travels back to eighteen-something. He finds the woman from a painting, the one he believes he is meant to be with and they fall in love. It’s sweeping music, walks on the shore, gorgeous dresses, and carpet picnics, lovely.
She teases him about his suit, and they’re laughing covered in that magical sunlight of dawn. He’s smiling that gorgeous smile only Christopher Reeve possessed as he gets up to mockingly try on the suit. That’s when he pulls a 1979 penny from his vest pocket. Things start spinning. Face stricken, he reaches for her and in mere seconds, he is ripped from delightful and thrown back to a life of less than.
If you’re going to watch it, stop when they are eating chicken, and he reaches for his jacket. Stay in the warmth of the carpet picnic because the rest is too painful.
I shouldn’t be fatalistic, but sometimes I wonder if I will delve into the red velvety bag of my mind and pull out my last letter. It’s silly, I know.
Writing is what I do, it is all I know how to do, and there’s no reason for it to stop. But just in case, I’m not looking at any more pennies.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Back to Sleep.
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