Get in the car. Turn the key. Engine starts-- put it in gear. Here we go.
Don't forget your seatbelt.
I've got piles. Stacks of paper on my desk, in boxes. All for inspiration at a later date.
Today's that later date. Time to get, as my therapist put it, a spiritual enema.
I want to write about my past. I want to tell of the stories that I thought were important then. Are they still important? Time will have to tell.
I was a boy back then. Young. You may not have guessed just by looking at me. But it's true. I was just 18 years old and I'd found the person I thought I wanted to spend my life with. Problem was, I was timid, I was shy, and I wasn't sure she wanted what I wanted. And I was scared that if I asked, the truth would be something I just couldn't bear. So I was quietly friendly and cautious. Slow. Hopefully romantic. Hopeful. But exasperatingly cautious. And timid. And frozen from acting on my greatest of intentions.
I set this all up because I hope to transcribe what I wrote longhand so many years ago. But not here; this is not the place to rehash all the names and places of my past.
Or is it?
Guess I'll do what the audience desires.
If there is an audience.