You wake up at 4am and begin to type in your journal. You look at the date in disturbed amazement and struggle to remember the last time you could see the print clearly without your glasses.
You thought that you should feel accomplished and satisfied by this time of your life and ready to write your memoirs: instead, all you feel is terrified.
You have a nagging idea that the world has moved on and left you behind.
It’s an understatement to say that life was distressing in your early years but, at least you had a sense of moving toward something better… the allure of potential and new possibility.
Now that delicious feeling has morphed into a contracted foreboding that you just can’t seem to shake without at least two glasses of wine.
You love to recount your adventures in a well-timed social moment, and people often remark, “oh, you should write that down”, but you know deep down that diving into that rabbit-hole might also knock the lid off Pandora’s proverbial box and stir up God knows what from below.
“What’s the point in telling stories from the past anyway?” you think. “I mean, really… what will it achieve?”.
On the other hand, it might just be that the flotsam and jetsam that rises is the very thing that keeps you afloat.