always.

If it doesn’t flow from your fingers, then you aren’t ready to write it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it. If it doesn’t come bursting out of you, in spite of everything, don’t do it. Right? But it hasn’t come bursting. It pokes me and nudges me and teases me. It allows me to write a breath-taking beginning. To shape a story into perfection. Then it leaves me. Sometimes after a paragraph, sometimes after 5 pages. It just leaves. At times, all I need is that final sentence. That last word. But it’s gone. And I can’t force it.

I was filling out surveys earlier today, just to pass the time. And one of the questions was, “If you could live to be 120 years old, would you?” And my answer is absolutely not. I don’t want to grow old. I don’t want my mind and body to go. I don’t want to have to rely on other people to do everyday activities. Can you imagine the point in your life when you don’t even have the strength to turn the page of a book? When you have to ring a bell and schedule a time for the nurse to take you outside, just so you can see the sun?

I can and I hate it. I want to die young. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to die anytime soon. But I just can not grow old. I thrive on youth and vitality. I thrive on passion and romance. I can not grow old. And I am reminded of Tuck Everlasting. I’d love to stay 17 forever. But think of the consequences. I do not mean watching the people you love die. I mean, anything you do that is truly great must be done in complete anonymity. If you become famous, then you’ll become recognizable. Then 50 years from now, people will see how you haven’t aged. I suppose you could invest in makeup and wigs to make you appear like you’re aging. Then fake your death and lay low until people forget about you. But that is entirely too much commitment for my tastes.

I would like to do something completely mind blowing then just disappear into seclusion. Not give any hint as to where I went.