Sometimes when I sit down at the computer and start making mental noises, intending to write, I find myself forgetting to think. I type the first thing that comes to mind, regardless of it's relevance or authenticity. I fail to consider why I'm sitting here with the little nubs under my forefingers, or what it is that I want to accomplish.
I think, when I was younger, shallow, and longing constantly to find out what's next, this approach worked for me. I had my eyes locked on the internal maelstrom, and all I could grasp were the flotsam flying by me, tossed up in the spray. I had no interest in the shadowy lurking things detaching themselves from the bottom, avoiding the flashing center and whipping along, far, far from the surface.
I don't have that luxury now. Those shadowy behemoths have breached the surface, swum along it at length. Some have settled in permanently, having dropped their scaly anchors, and go about sending scouting parties, looking for land. I should have known, I should have been warned. I should have posted sentries, set tripwires, floating mines.
I suppose though, that every story (life) must have conflict to win through in triumph, must face loss to believe in love. If those terrors had never reached me, if they had lingered in the deeps and never challenged me for these seas that have settled somewhat and that I call my own... well. I would clutch still at the glittering spray, and catch nothing.
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