The more I read about E. B. White, the more I believe I may be E. B. White reincarnated, even though he died in 1985, the year I graduated from high school (I'll wait while you do the math.) I remember being worried about adulthood when I was young. I've always wanted to be a writer, but I also always knew that writing for a living is a dream within a rainbow within a unicorn. Whatever the hell that means.
I find myself in a strange place right now. I'm still doing what I've been doing for the past 15 or 16 years. Working at the medical office. Teaching at the university. Yet, I know the clock is ticking on this part of my life. In a couple of months, whether I like it or not, my life will be very different. And I'm already nostalgic for the life I'm still living. It's a weird predicament, like being a ghost in a crowded room.
This evening, I couldn't shake that haunted feeling. I was doing what I always do on Wednesday nights. Cleaning. I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed the rugs. While I scrubbing the sink and shower and toilet, I was even getting nostalgic about cleaning, and I don't know why. I'm standing on a precipice, and I can't see what's in front of me.
I'm not frightened. Not yet, anyway. But I'm missing something I haven't lost yet.
And Saint Marty isn't quite ready to let it go.
|Writing is something like this...|