“Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.” – Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
And I guess that’s what this is all about. The dreams, those fascinations that will not die.
Sure, they might leave us from time to time. They might remain quiet for years, even. But the dreams always return, and we are either pleased to encounter them once again or haunted by the nightmares of what might have been.
I used to write every day. In school, at home, anywhere. I would treat each essay as a challenge, every blank page as an opponent. With no real understanding of how to write, I would work the letters into words, then the words into sentences, until I thought everything sounded right.
More often than not, it was.
Then school ended, and “growing up” happened. College, off and on. The Marine Corps, boot camps and schools and deployment. Jobs, in the wood mills and other places, but always blue-collar work.
Somewhere along the way, I put down the pen. The blank paper had won.
Now, years later, the dream has returned. Whether the dream is friend or foe remains to be seen. The weight of wasted years lies heavy upon my heart. Can I make up for lost time? Is there still a writer living within me?
Stay with me, and we’ll soon find out.