Mockery

So once again the computer screen stares at me as if in mockery. It's heartless sneer daring me to create prose the likes of which will live on forever, quoted on the mouths of readers for days to come. The process begins, and yet the muse dances to and fro on skates of deception, tempting me, misleading me. She's a harlot, that one, telling me to write when words are none the wiser. And yet I do, and what lays before me? Is it prose the likes of Alexander the Great, or something more akin to the groundhog that hides from it's own shadow? I never know until I begin.

And such is life, a life I willingly choose. This life, these words, this is the path I've chosen for myself. Not an easy path. Certainly more than occupied with cracks and boulders, but I press ever onward. The end result? Unknown. So why bother? Why even ensconce myself if the end of the road is lost in fog?

Because of the journey. The journey itself is why I must live this life. Characters that live and breathe at the precipice of my fingertips all howl at me to venture on, to give them life, to tell them what to say, to place obstacles in their path that they might overcome, all the more rewarding me with their presence. Shouting tiny voices in the back of my mind daring me onward, pleading with me to give them life, to let their stories be known. And for them - and a little for myself - I venture onward into the fog.

Dare I find myself at the end.