I have been remiss. How long has it been since I let only my words dwell here (or there!) unaided by some other impetus? Horribly, remarkably remiss.
I need to get back to writing for myself, if for nobody else. There are many doors still open before me, but I've yet to do more than peek through a few for fear of walking through a single one. I've yet to decide how satisfied I will be once I do. It feels almost like trying to predict the rain. When will the drought end?
I've been happy with the endeavors and creative ends I've started, and met, and (sometimes) finished. Many of them (work, game design, story writing/editing) have involved serious stints of content creation and word-smithing. But, I guess I'm just anxious about what's next? Do I have the time and energy to devote to it? What if I get into it and get bored with it and then want to start something else? Is that time wasted or spent if you don't finish something? Growth, maybe, but at what cost? Growth at any cost is tantamount to neglect of something else that I won't want to be remiss on at this stage in my life. When we choose a path, we are simultaneously saying yes to the one and no to all the others in that moment. It's not a science, it's an art, but an art that has a scientific (measurable) effect on us and the world around us.
You know that feeling when all the time in the world seems to be running out very quickly? The days stack up. An empty cup needs refilling. I'd like to think I would never wish for a time when I could have a DeLorean equipped with a flux-capacitor, but there's the thought!
I think this is more about the fear of not knowing. I might as well rename this piece, "The Fears of Being Human." That would be far less honest, however, and evoke a somewhat more cringey response upon a critical read of the content. So, let's leave it at that.
