I sat at our dining room table this evening, finishing a chapter of the novel I have been working on for some time. It's grown to somewhat of a runaway snowball tumbling down a hillside, getting larger and larger until I wonder if it will ever stop. But I keep writing, regardless.
My brother-in-law and I were talking this afternoon, and the subject came up of things we enjoy that aren't really an essential thing to our financial well being or critical in other areas, such as spiritual or health related. My writing is a passion that takes me out of the ordinary and into a world where anything is possible; failure can be avoided with a handful of keystrokes, life's problems become a dull ache that really don't mean a lot in the big picture, and whee I can become absorbed in someone's world other than my own to the point reality doesn't even matter, for a time.
I can express myself on my terms and take all the time I need. Once finished, it's there forever. Yes, writing gives us a chance of immortality.
As I sat here into early stages of darkness the thunder in the distance turned louder, and a soft, gentle rain began to fall, tickling the leaves outside and playing a harmonious tune. It blended with a symphony of unseen musicians, their performance not as individuals, but a wall of sound that filled the air from all directions. Then a trail came in from the west, a low whistle that soon turned into a rumble and scream.
Now the magic has gone in hiding. The trains have passed, and rain showers are further down the road, singing its tune to a new group of people, some who will see it as simply a nuisance. For me, life is a new adventure about to happen. Sometimes I'm disappointed, but I don't miss nearly as much as I used to.