On scars

Scars. We all have them; at least I think we all do. They can be cool, interesting. They can also be horrifying. The scars do not necessarily define us, but they can help explain us. They are like a roadmap, an index of our experiences, good and bad. They are remembrances of times when we were brave or foolish, daring or careless. Of things we have done, or had done to us. Sometimes we learn from them. Sometimes we use them to teach others. And sometimes we do neither. Some wear their scars as a badge of honor, of what they have endured or accomplished. Some hide their scars in shame, finding the memory of their pain as sharp as the moment it occurred. And sometimes, sometimes the scars fade as does the memory, but somewhere deep inside us they are still there. For better or worse, they remain a part of us. 

Dreaming Again:

I was waiting upstairs, looking for something. I walked from room to room, glancing in and moving on. I stopped at the room at the top of the stairs. There in the bed, covers pulled up neatly to its neck the body waited. It had been dead for some time. It was shriveled up like a raisin. A dry husk. If it had wrappings I would call it a mummy, but it didn’t. I stood there, leaning on the door frame, wondering. Would this one rise up as well, or was it too far gone? Too removed from the life that once moved those limbs? I think its time had long passed.

A noise drew my attention away and I turned towards the the stairs. In the main room a zombie shuffled by. I came down the stairs slowly, passing behind it and turning to check the kitchen. Empty. I passed the zombie again, sliding past it as we crossed through the doorway. Another shuffled in the corner of the front room.

Over to the left, sitting at a writing table in the den, K.D. looked up at me. “As long as you don’t startle them, they won’t attack.” he said.

I nodded, saying nothing. It seemed somehow normal having the undead wandering the house. I opened the front door. The porch looked out over a very tidy suburban America. I looked like some place you might see in Back to the Future, or Leave It to Beaver. It was modern, but too clean. Too much how Hollywood might envision a neighborhood. Almost like the Truman Show. I walked out the path to the street. No one was around. It was quiet. At the far end of the very straight street I saw them. A pair of runners, bounding forward. Those won’t be as peaceful as the ones in the house. Those mean to attack. I moved with some urgency, back inside, closing the door behind me. We didn’t really have anything to bar it with, so I settled on locking the deadbolt. I knew it should be enough. The wandering one was back down the hall, towards the kitchen. The other in the corner didn’t move. K.D. looked up at me again and said, “Just don’t startle them.”

As absurd as it sounds, I felt pretty sure we were going to be okay.

Introspection: Thoughts on Time

Time to reboot back to what is important & clear away the distractions.  Clean out the clutter & silence the noise.  Wipe the slate clean… and any other clichéd metaphor.

Somewhere along the way we lost sight, not only of our goal but of the path itself.  Dreams.  Plans.  “Maybe Someday”s.  All wandered aside.  Not really pushed, or willfully abandoned, just neglected.  Collecting dust, fading away until they were eventually forgotten.  That happens sometimes, with things, dreams, even people.  Until one day you blink and ask… “Whatever happened to _____?”  It’s a mystery, sometimes… …other time you’ve just grown beyond it.

Life has a certain hustle & bustle to it.  A current, or tide, that sweeps along.  It is easier to just let it flow and hope you end up where you want to be, but real progress requires effort.  A struggle.  It can seem easy for some, for others as you watch them passing by, but it is still work.  To better one’s life, one’s self, or the world around them requires effort.

It is the times that I stopped swimming, when I let the current whisk me along, those are the times that I felt like I was moving, but it was an illusion.  The eddies & pools of life seem to switch back on each other, and when you don’t make an effort to push ahead, you can find yourself back where you started…

… if not further behind.

So… what is important?

?

Art, creation… ideas.

Stability, finances… money.

Health, friendship… love.

 

So much of it, time.  Time.  The only real and finite resource we have.  Money seems tangible, but it is only an idea.  An agreed upon value and even that fluctuates.  We are all led to believe we need so much money.  So much of the things it can buy.  But we can’t buy time.  Not really, not yet.  We can only spend it.  We each have our own personal, finite limit of time.  But here’s the kicker, we don’t know just how much time that is.  We have guesses, estimations based on our health, family history & lifestyle.  Even the areas we choose to live & work, all of those surely factor in to that unknown duration that is ‘our time’, but no one knows for sure.

So what are you doing with your limited time?  Spending it on something you find important?  Or to have value?  You’re the judge of that, ultimately.  Even relaxation and downtime have value.

But consider this…

When you get to the end of you time…

 

What matters most to you?

Random thoughts and alliteration

Into the watching waves the wind wistfully wanders.

Foam frequently froths forward, following friendly flights of fancy.

Sand screams sounds of scorn and sincerity savors silence.

Peace, pleasure and pompous propensity propagates profundity.

Perhaps it only proves that I’m insane…

…but I decided, against my better judgement, to sign up for NaNoWriMo this year.  I think I’m going to be delving into Talia’s past before she came to Arabel, but I’ve already been visited by one character I wasn’t expecting when I started, so we shall see how this thing evolves.

That said, I will probably post an excerpt or two here as I go along, if anyone is interested. Most of it wouldn’t be suitable to add to her journal, at least not from the point of view I’ll be writing.

Wish me luck, and don’t expect to see me much unless I’m keeping up with word count, or suffering from writer’s block Wink