Midnight. Days before Christmas. I wonder why I am awake in the middle of the night. It must be as I’ve heard, writers write at the strangest times. When the persistent urge to create attacks, then we pull on our slippers, sleepwalk to the nearest computer or pen and paper, and write until the urge passes. Anything will do–memoir, poems, inspiration–all of which looks much better tonight than it will tomorrow morning.
I dream of one day crafting words that others will understand. No. Not just understand but relate to, breathe and inhale the meaning. Connect to God and others in a deeper way. Perhaps that is my vapor and only the scent will carry to the future. But even that will suffice.