I write to explore.
Like a road that wanders
to where I do not know.
In this earthly shell of one body
lies the flitting thoughts of many other potential roads.
The knowing that all our lives
could/would/did take certain paths
but what if?
What if a different choice had been made in a different moment?
Where would that path have lead?
Who would I have been?
Or what about living in a different time?
On a different continent?
What about trying to survive in a world
that made no sense at all?
How would I have lived and navigated then?
Crossing the west in a covered wagon,
being a geisha with porcelain Asian features,
or a young woman in Auschwitz during WW 2
What would have been the motives, the hopes, the choices?
Those worlds all contained plots and the characters that imbibed them.
Writing brings them out of the shrouds of time
cancels the mystery of distance
so they can climb right off the page
live out the words you write for them.
Making choices both heroic and not.
Being superbly human all unfolds
if you let it.
The tumbling kaleidoscope
of thoughts and patterns
translating into words
lets a writer explore
as many potential worlds
as Livingstone or Maro Polo
could have only dreamed of roaming.
While I am gently tethered to this earth with a physical body
the mind knows no such constraints
can move across culture and borders
and transcend even time itself.
In the crafting of words both delicate and heavy
emerges entire worlds e
equally as rich as the physical moment of now.
Think of your favorite character from a novel
and how meeting that character within the pages of a book transformed you.
Added dimension to how you viewed your own world.
You can be assured it transformed the writer who thought of it also.
It is in this glorious quest
for exploration and transformation
that I write