In a flash my entire story played out - it came to me out of dream. Yet, over the years only bits and pieces revisit me, some brighter than others. I even once mapped out the entirity of that dreamworld. A thick, heavy paper, varnished with age and cracked with time. I put so much into that parchment's detail that it came alive. I was seventeen at the time. A thousand years later, and now the dream's faded into reality, the map long discarded, the memories blured. Inbetween forgotten and fobidden I strive to recapture it again in all its fasination, but find it dreadfully hard to compose the smoke. Only four chapters - unread by many, smiled at by a few, all of it needing to be rewriten before the rest even is told. Will my story ever write itself into completion? And who would even care?
The power of the imagintion may not lead to answers, but it is the substance between questions and answers : here lies the learning or wandering.
ReplyDeleteI think it's important for you to keep writing no matter what.
ReplyDeleteI like the image, BTW. Seems the light is following the procession. Gives them a magical feel. I like how you integrated the characters into the... uh... forest. I like the colors, too.
ReplyDeleteWHat matters is you care.
ReplyDeleteReally, I dont know. But at my age... I think we all need to do something for ourself, not others.... Once we are fulfilled, maybe others will too....
Just my two cents worth...... CHeers...