Today, I'm drinking a cup of coffee, I've run around with the wife, and am thinking of our future. I often wonder if the writing I complete, 99.9% unpublished, will gain the light of day when I'm gone. It's a curious question, that teeters on the brink of melancholy and I don't need anyone saying that I'm playing the victim, because at the end of the day it's my own lazy a** that don't push it out into the masses for publication, even though most of it is decent, compared to a lot of slush out in the writing universe. I do say that procrastination comes honestly and don't blame the honesty, and that "putting off" effortlessly numbs the process, causing frustration and turns my fiction into what most refer to as a hobby. Partly because it has, nor gains monetary value, and partly because I don't sit down for eight hours and plug out contemporary novel after contemporary novel. It's not in me, yet. What's in me is the future of a life, traveling, hooking up that Airstream, getting in and getting lost in our marriage once again. Time is ticking and the sad realization that our lives are narrowing, like that artery that sometimes narrows with too much cholesterol, and that window seems bright, no, not the light in the tunnel of life or death. Even with the narrowness, or the time restraints that may hinder our very thought, just the idea, the remnants and thoughts of our future is something concrete and can help get through the every day monotonous and autonomy. We smile, I think, we act, I wonder, we see, I write. And it all comes full circle to the future we are laying out, back to basics, back to alone time, us time, and in a world of different culture than where we began, it surrounds us, gives us more or less, yin or yang, divinity or living chaos, it will always be what we make of it, and it will always be the "us" that makes it complete. Thanks for stopping by.