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“I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.” Stephen King


For a while I had lost the reason, the why of the thing. Life took over, as it does. With its tragedies, its triumphs, its banalities and its boring unoriginal drama. And somewhere in there the reason was lost. And with it the passion. I have been inspired again. And so I write one more time. And if I see her again (when I see her again!) I will write yet again. I hope to see her again so I can write again. And I hope to see her again just to see her again.

A guy I know once said to me, “Nature will provide.” And it has, in spades. I’ve been inspired again. My idea of the world challenged. And me with no answer. There’s this girl. (It’s always going to be a girl, when the world ends it will be over a girl). She’s a cliché. Young, beautiful, quick to smile, a joy to be around. A girl you want to kiss for the first time over and over. A beautiful cliché. And I’ve been inspired. Nature has provided.

The rock I call my view of the world has not so much been moved as shattered into a million pieces. And there was nothing I could do about it. Shit, I didn’t even know it was there! One look at her and I didn’t want to do anything about it. I was comfortable under my rock. It was mine and mine alone. And now that it’s gone I’m not quite sure what to do. That’s not quite true: I’m writing, and that’s something to do. And it feels good. Like that first time your hand brushed against hers. Or when you looked into her eyes and suddenly knew you were going to kiss her. Almost as if she was the one whispering to you nature will provide.


“I wish I’d kissed you last night when I wanted to.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

I’m excited by the possibility of a later as much as the prospect of the kiss. I’m excited to be writing again. It’s no better than it was when I stopped but I don’t really care (maybe just a little). I’m excited about writing about seeing her again.


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