There’s something about the written word that has long captivated me. I wish I could tell you what it is, but it’s not that easy. It’s something like the Dao; once you try to put words to it, you miss it completely. For me words have been some of my lifelong friends; they’ve been around me since I was a child growing up in Albuquerque, N.M. No matter what was going on with me, there was always something the words wanted to show me. All I had to do was open up a book and there they were, literarily singing songs, playing symphonies, dancing in sync upon the limitless waters of the blank page.
Too many inspirations to name. Jordan, Mitchell, King, Allen, Poe, Rothfuss, Carroll, Kipling, the list goes on.
The fact is there’s no time to be had in this life, only time to be made and time to be enjoyed. If, at the end of our stretch, we can say that we’ve been able to accomplish that, then, in so many words, perhaps we can say that we’ve lived fully. Because if all we have is a string of moments, and we can’t do any moment over again, isn’t it best to do what we enjoy, and be satisfied with the string we’ve decided to create?