I posted a quote from a poem in my book today on Twitter, and it got me thinking about what I wrote, and what it means to me. The poem makes me a little sad for lost opportunities and frankly a little desperate, in a way, to try to make some sort of difference in the world. The snippet reads:
"Who will remain in years to come, eyes squeezed shut, desperately hunting for the color of your eyes in the slides of the mind, as time fades the ink of memory?"
I think that this old poem has played a part in driving me to complete The Long, Slow Summer Sun, as well as contributing to a sense of restlessness and unease with just living the "normal" way. You know: work, beer, sports on TV, Netflix- wash, rinse, repeat. When I finished my degree recently I was a little shell-shocked in a sense- no more studying, writing, researching, etc. I could live like others if I wanted to, but really can't. There is always something to be learning or researching. It's just my way.
So as I sit by the window writing this and enjoying an absolutely amazing Spring breeze and sunset, I don't know what's going to happen, or how much of a difference in the world my book will make. Does it matter? I'm not sure; I'm not sure that the sum total of my effect on the planet should be judged by the dissemination of my work, though in one sense that would almost have to be more than my physical presence's effect on my immediate area.
Who knows? Something to ponder.