The Paradoxical Zen

  As I pull out my pen and paper, a hidden excitement dawns in me, something that has laid dormant for so long.  I love writing, its a little passion of mine that I have only picked up recently, but something I do hope to continue.  Then, when I have a pen and blank sheet at my ready, I freeze.  Well, damn, I have nothing to write about.

  But I don't move to put my stuff back.  I sit so still, debating with my own self.  Allowing my thoughts to eat me up whole.  I have so many personal experiences I can get out, that I can describe in vivid, beautiful details.

  I can write about what has broken me this past year, with the layoffs, lack of theater, and failing of classes.

  I can write about my travels, out to CA and back, my cancellation in Chicago, my trip to MN, my road trips.

  I can write about my future, about St. Kate's and the physical therapy program, minoring in Theology and so forth.

  As I spiral in a whirlwind of my past, present, and future of my life, I come to a simple conclusion.  What do people want to hear?  Who will even read it to begin with?  Should I give what I want, or what they want?  Do my experiences get the credit they deserve being voiced by myself, using everyones' eyes' and ears' as a writing tool?

  Probably not.  Maybe I won't do them justice.  Maybe I have never done justice by writing them to begin with.  So lets back track to square one.

  I love writing.  Let's hope I can do that justice.

  I must retract myself from my mind eventually, its only so long until someone worries.  I come back to my pen and blank sheet.  Smiling, I gently pack up my materials.

"Maybe Tomorrow."