As I sit here, staring blankly at my computer screen, I ponder what I should write. My mind wanders across my life in a torrent of mini scripts and video clips of my life. A never ending reel of movie highlights plays before me, skimming the top, and once in a while, diving deep into my past to dig up little golden nuggets of memories full of smiles, and tears, and everything in between.
I scour my memory for things that have seemed to slip my mind. I search the canyons and dry river beds of my thoughts for the lost pages of the novel that is me.
I sit and wonder some times just what to write about next. Different things come to mind, and as I sort through them, one by one, I am flooded with emotions from my past.
I also wonder if I should just write about my dreams, because they are rushing at me, night after night, like never before. More vivid and clear, the moments and faces and feelings associated with my recent countless dreams, fill my head as I wake every morning.
I can’t say that I recall dreaming of things that have taken place since my vision loss, more so the dreams are of times from when I could see. Tale after tale of wonderfully imaginative adventures that leave me wanting more. Maybe I should start writing about them?
I ponder on my poetry, and it’s meanings. I have written quite a few poems this past year, and it seems that one theme is captured more than not, without even trying. My poetry seems to revolve around my vision loss, and all that surrounds it. I write about colors, and sights, and beliefs, and obstacles, and clarity, and faith. I tend to write a lot of poems in the prose form. Up to a few months ago, I did not know what that term meant. I do now, and I enjoy writing in it. I write what feels good, and flows well from within. My style is my own, and I have no other. I am what I write, and what I write, is me. I can not get away from my writings. They have become a huge part of who I am, and where I am heading. I can not overlook the words that jump out onto the computer screen from my fingers.
I do forget about mostly everything when I am writing. Time flies, and the stories, for the most part, just sort of, appear. I don’t know where I go when I write, but I can assure you that I do go somewhere. I lose all track of time when I write, and I forget that I can not see. The material part of my surroundings take on a new form, or perhaps I should say, they exist somewhere other than here.
So many times I have started a piece, and before I knew it, it was complete. Then as I go back and read through it, I really don’t remember writing most of it. It’s like I’m reading it for the first time. I seem to get transfixed inside.
I do plan to keep on writing. I hope I never lose this passion for writing that I seem to have found this past year. I crave to be in front of the screen, and yearn for the sound of the keys popping under my fingers. It is such a good feeling to me to hear that popping sound. Sure beats the hell out of that old hunt and peck sound that I had grown accustomed to just a few short months ago.
The stories in me will hopefully make their way out onto the screen, one by one. I feel so full sometimes of the tales and the stories and the poems and the words that live within me.
There are so many clichés and catch phrases that sum up what I have gone through. I am them all, and they, me. I guess that I am sort of a cliché myself. I always went with the flow, and hardly ever went against the grain, for fear of being singled out. That fear is no longer welcome in my life, and although it does find it’s way back in from time to time, it knows that it is going to be confronted with a different point of view.
I turn to the left, and hear the spinning of the dryer beside me. As it turns, the seconds of another day spin right along side it. If I can get my mind to spin fast enough, I can keep up with it. Tumble dry, and static free. Wouldn’t that be great?