Call me a lemming. Everyone else does it....why not me?
As do most who blog, I love to write. It relaxes me. I lose track of time as I slip into my mind's eye and write what I see there. Some of it makes sense, a lot of it doesn't.
I started out writing for myself. A sort of self-inflicted therapy meant to soothe and calm my young mind. Before long, it became a deeper part of me and I began to have a nagging urge to set it free.
Not for fame or fortune, although I wouldn't throw a shoe at it and beg it to go away. But for a purely selfish reason. Something rather hideous, actually.
I'm terrified of being forgotten. Of being buried deep in the ground under the cold earth with nothing but a slim stone engraved with name, date of birth, date of death, and maybe a cross to mark the entirety of my life. 100 years from now when my bones are powder, who will know me then?
If no one remembers, did I ever exist?
I'm 40 years old. I've lived a little. I've experienced a few things. Nothing extraordinary to the general population, but what wasn't extraordinary in time and space is phenomenal in detail and feeling.
The things many forget, I remember. The solemn marching of sea grass at Destin Beach, the silent whirl of snowflakes dancing on black ice, and the musty smell of stagnant back waters of a slow-moving creek.
Shared memories live on. Stories live on. In this blog, I hope that an essence of my life will somehow live on, as well.
