The Struggle with Myself Between the Lines

I guess, this is it. Every moment is a culmination of moments before. Like words, moments are singular, linear, progressive events all exponentially growing into increasingly both simple and complex constructs of time. Some we live, others we remember. Much of it, like the morning breeze or the evening sunset comes and goes, never to return and often never to become memorable. Tomorrow, it will be a different morning breeze, and a different sunset. Our home called Earth will not be in the same position, as neither will the entire solar system, as it was yesterday. And for that matter, neither will I.

It’s both enlightening and disappointing to realise how little of 34 years I actually remember. I can sum it up in roughy 450 pages, and over the course of nearly a year, that is exactly what I did. I have a problem with writing though. I have always liked writing, no doubt about that, that is not the issue. Words come easily to me, they are barely more than a diarrheic dump of my brain, getting sick with words on a piece of paper and trying to make sense of it later. And that is where it all gets complicated. Writing a book was easy. All I needed, was a story and time. Stories I had because there was plenty to remember, and time… well, time just happened to me somehow. Stories, time, and I kept writing. Simple. Linear. Until I read it…