What Could Be Next

My own little world consumes me a bunch of the time.  I try to existentialize things and bring the universe into it or maybe project my microcosm out into the larger space as if it applies to the bigger picture.  I do this for you.  For me.  for the children. It doesn't always work but sometimes it does.

I'm working on a thing, a writing thing bigger than le blog.  It's just a goofy project type thing for me to do instead of puzzling or painting which I've done plenty enough lately to quell the voice in my head. you'd think. And because it's still too Winter for landscaping, Dirt Therapy will have to wait until Spring.  I'm considering starting seeds for a garden indoors but given my penchant for killing plants I'm not especially optimistic about that prospect.  So for now my only therapy is writing.  Well, that and godblessamerica horrifying television.  Ah Bachelor.  You silly Shameless. And now Redneck Vacation. You have no idea what you mean to me in those desperately odd moments away from the computer.  You are escape routes. Perhaps fucked up lights at the end of the tunnel. But a means to an alternate end. That is what you are, and for that I will always be grateful.

Anyway the voice in my head is taking a different tack and urging me to write outside of myself which is new. and HARD because I've never really done that before. but it's a good thing.  I think. I've written the beginnings to fantasy scenarios for decades now but I've never gotten to the next part. They meet, they're drawn to each other, they collapse in a magnificent embrace.  whee.  but...next?  I never get to the next.  I'm usually just fine with the connection part.

Next is messy.  Next is...baggage. Next is the stuff of life.  It's all fine and good to fall in love with someone in their party clothes self, but working out the mechanics of being in love with someone in their everyday self is different.  There is nothing romantic about that usually.  In my experience anyway. Everyday is bad moods sometimes and being tired and having to figure out what's for dinner. Everyday does not look like a well timed glance across a candlelit room. Everyday kind of fucking sucks a lot of the time.

Next is practically impossible seeming.

So I write and I write trying for hours to work out a good Next.  I walk away from the computer.  I stretch and finish a sudoku puzzle. I sit outside even though it's only 40 degrees.  I watch stupid TV which reminds me of everything Now I'm trying to avoid. But all I can see is Now.

Now doesn't look great. No matter how much I wish it did. Composing a Next from this Now? *grumble.

Everything is possible. I repeat that in my head like it's true.  part of me knows better. but then another part of me wonders if this is just the middle of one of those obnoxious Christian romance stories.

I roll my eyes at that and try to write out an ending where I'm happier alone on my own island with my best friends around me and the troubles of the world are far away.

I've picked the island out and everything.  It's only $800,000.