I think I am nearing my stride. A third of the way through. I say that because I spent most of the day today thinking about what I am going to write. It is pouring rain outside currently, which makes me unbelievably happy. Today was so awfully humid, I could barely function.
I love the sound of the rain. As it hits the roof. Millions upon millions of little smacks every few seconds. Like millions of tiny glass balls exploding over and over again. Shattering. Crashing. Water Blitzkrieg.
Tonight’s storm is sounding especially violent. Maybe I should tell a ghost-story. Why not:
Rick shivered. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath leave his lungs.
That is something we never really grow out of. Seeing the freezing carbon dioxide leaving our lungs. It is impressive. It reminds us that there is something giving us life. Something tangible, that without we would all die. It is nice to be able to see our breath. To know first hand there is something keeping us alive. Comfort.
Rick needed to be comforted. In fact, comfort is what he sought out more than anything else. He needed to be affirmed constantly that he was successful enough, he needed to be strong enough, to have the newest car, the newest TV, the newest and most comfortable everything. But you have heard that story before. You hear and see it every day in the news, on the radio and in the movies.
What made Rick unique, is that he wanted a comfort that was unattainable. The comfort that Rick truly sought was that he would always go on living. Rick believed there to be a price tag on immortality.
Rick clenched his muscles and shook off the cold. Today was what he believed to be his last chance to be immortalized. He had gone down every avenue, when he was in his twenties he threw off notions of always being remembered. He wanted more. In his thirties he decided religion was far from his hope. He wanted more. He wanted control. In his forties science went out the door. Again he wanted to know for sure.
But by his fifties, a new notion sprang to life. One shrouded in mystery and lore. In fact, this notion required him to back track to years past and believe in magic once more. Not magic like the kind that gave us hope for love and prosperity as a child. The type of magic Rick needed to trust in was dark. This kind of magic is colored red for passion, for anger, for revenge, for sin and for blood…
It is very late at night and I will have to revisit this story another day. We will have to wait to find out about Rick’s plan to find immortality.
Write something, even if it doesn’t go to completion. Write anyway. Not every story or scene you think of has to become an epic. Sometimes it can just be a small creative idea. And who knows, if I never finish Rick’s story I may pull from his story and combine it with another.
That is the wonderful thing about the creative mind. There is no end to the storage space in your mind to invent and reinvent.
Keep writing friends.