God created the world in 144 hours and it has taken me almost 43,829 hours to begin writing creatively again. Just begin. Not even produce any completed, polished piece of work. There was that one piece I wrote a few months back that I suppose was "completed." Polished? Hardly. Readable? Depends on who you ask. Not that you can ask very many people because not very many people read these short stories I somehow extract from my head. And once they are removed from my head and placed onto the page, they are almost nonexistent. So I guess writing for me is a form of exorcism. Sounds painful. Sounds scary.
It also sounds necessary. Yes, writers are often that starry eyed bunch who passionately exclaim that they were "born to write." That is their calling! That is why they were placed on this 6-days-to-create earth! There is no other possibility for them but to write and to write often, feverishly, triumphantly. Usually, however, they find themselves in the back corner of a crappy coffee shop, notebook open, pen scratching, thoughts of grandeur flowing. Keep working on that screenplay, kid! I sincerely mean that. I'm sorry I called you kid. That can sound condescending. But kids are imaginative and chase after those dreams and hey! Don't give up on your dreams, reach for the stars, chase after stars, dream of stars, don't give up on stars, stars are dying or are already dead, but they do look pretty. As long as you look pretty, nothing else matters. Wait! Crap! No! Ignore all of my advice. Ignore me.
That's what I need to do! As Ms. Winfrey would say, I've just had an a-ha moment or whatever. I need to ignore me. The me that tells me I can't do it, I shouldn't do it, I haven't the time or talent to keep pumping out these odd jumble of words. The me is the ego. The ego is only about protecting itself. It needs to keep up the appearance of total togetherness, for whatever reason. Why does the ego try so hard? What's the point of appearing to be cool if it's all just smoke and mirrors? The mirror should be there to reflect oneself, not deceive. The mirror should be a tool, not a trick. I want to make peace with that reflection and then shatter the glass with no superstition. Hello, you. You look quite fine and you've served your purpose, but now it's time for me to serve my purpose. Take a hike while I begin to write. I'll probably write while on a hike because the open sky serves me better than the crappy coffee shop. Not that there is a me to serve, but... But I'm losing myself in a maze of words again. Perfect.
So what if God created the world in 144 hours while I've been sitting restlessly inside of my own head for god knows how many hours? Definitely more than 144. But again, so what? I'm not God (as far as I know) and I'm not creating the world. I am simply creating a dot on my own map. And in this place there are no hours or minutes or days or eons. There aren't even any mirrors. No, contained within this dot on my own map are skies and stars bright and alive and those dandelion puffs that litter the yard and create a sea for broken bikes and curious children. This region will be written, not named. It will be a refuge for the forgotten kids who find themselves in the back corner, myself included. And behold, it will be very good.