Nocturnal writing escapades are becoming something of a habit. It seems to take an entire day for the reflective part of my consciousness to find it’s way from the labyrinth, pull up a comfy chair, and start talking to anybody that might listen.
Sometimes I have a lot to write, and sometimes very little. It very much depends on events of the day, I suppose – for the last year “adventure” has been somewhat thin on the ground. Life has been quiet.
I’ve often made sense of life by likening it to a “choose your own adventure” book – where you make decisions throughout each day, and they result in turning to given pages where the immediate future is foretold. While it’s a nice idea, I’m not sure it always works. The real world seems to involve far more unpredictability that any scripted story could engineer. Perhaps the chaos is a natural product of everybody turning their pages at the same time.
Sometimes you arrive on the same page as somebody else, and discover each other through the stories of the days that follow. The plot for chapters to come is rewritten – shaped by nothing more than each other’s presence. It’s all rather marvellous.