Where We Are
What do you miss?
When you think back to events in your life, periods of time, milestones, what is it you miss?
I'll wager what you miss are sensations. Certain emotions, certain perspectives. 'The world seemed so big back then'. 'There was such magic in the air'. When you think back to those moments, and you wish you could just bottle up the magic of brisk breezes blowing out of an early September sky, or the sweet fusion of a cold morning and a hot afternoon under the blanket of spring. The excitment of Christmas morning. The first time you held a crush's hand. A first kiss.
What chemicals in the brain produced those? What cocktail of neurotransmitters produced those sensations? Why can't we get them back? Or can we?
I feel time running out. I'm thirty-seven, which means I've passed the middle year of my life (if my father's side of the family, whom I take after physically, is any indicator). Given their median age is 68-72, I'm very likely on the backhalf of my life. Granted, I'm MUCH healthier than any of them were or are, so that helps. Plus, I have my mother's side of the family who have all lived into their 90s (which poses a problem in caring for my aging mother, but that's another matter). Still, there's good money I won't live to see 75.
I'm okay with that, really. I don't particularly like being alive and I don't feel like I'm very good at living. The thing I lament the most is that I fear for the stories that I will leave behind. I have this crushing sense when I think about dying tomorrow, and overwhelmingly what I think about is the books that will not be published. The whole Singularity Saga, of which Proton is the first book, will not be known. Nor will the next half-dozen Rhest for the Wicked books. Hell, I never finished the Crossworld Saga. Samifel led into a whole series. Nobody knows where Ghee was going. I never finished Teach The Sky either.
I enjoy my job but I begrudge the time I don't use to write. This bleeds over into every other activity. I could go to kung fu...or I could make some headway on a book. I could have a casual afternoon...or I could make some headway on a book. I could take a much, much needed vacation...or I could make headway on a book. There will never be a time when there aren't words to be put to page. That thought exhausts me.
And let's not even get into who will read them, or if they'll ever be released to be read.
I wonder if anyone will ever read Conversations with Princesses? I wonder if I'll ever finish that. I'd kind of like to, but it was an exploration of ruins with no treasure at the end. Fascinating and illuminating but with no reward. Not all stories have morals.
And then, not all posts have conclusions.
When you think back to events in your life, periods of time, milestones, what is it you miss?
I'll wager what you miss are sensations. Certain emotions, certain perspectives. 'The world seemed so big back then'. 'There was such magic in the air'. When you think back to those moments, and you wish you could just bottle up the magic of brisk breezes blowing out of an early September sky, or the sweet fusion of a cold morning and a hot afternoon under the blanket of spring. The excitment of Christmas morning. The first time you held a crush's hand. A first kiss.
What chemicals in the brain produced those? What cocktail of neurotransmitters produced those sensations? Why can't we get them back? Or can we?
I feel time running out. I'm thirty-seven, which means I've passed the middle year of my life (if my father's side of the family, whom I take after physically, is any indicator). Given their median age is 68-72, I'm very likely on the backhalf of my life. Granted, I'm MUCH healthier than any of them were or are, so that helps. Plus, I have my mother's side of the family who have all lived into their 90s (which poses a problem in caring for my aging mother, but that's another matter). Still, there's good money I won't live to see 75.
I'm okay with that, really. I don't particularly like being alive and I don't feel like I'm very good at living. The thing I lament the most is that I fear for the stories that I will leave behind. I have this crushing sense when I think about dying tomorrow, and overwhelmingly what I think about is the books that will not be published. The whole Singularity Saga, of which Proton is the first book, will not be known. Nor will the next half-dozen Rhest for the Wicked books. Hell, I never finished the Crossworld Saga. Samifel led into a whole series. Nobody knows where Ghee was going. I never finished Teach The Sky either.
I enjoy my job but I begrudge the time I don't use to write. This bleeds over into every other activity. I could go to kung fu...or I could make some headway on a book. I could have a casual afternoon...or I could make some headway on a book. I could take a much, much needed vacation...or I could make headway on a book. There will never be a time when there aren't words to be put to page. That thought exhausts me.
And let's not even get into who will read them, or if they'll ever be released to be read.
I wonder if anyone will ever read Conversations with Princesses? I wonder if I'll ever finish that. I'd kind of like to, but it was an exploration of ruins with no treasure at the end. Fascinating and illuminating but with no reward. Not all stories have morals.
And then, not all posts have conclusions.