Returning to my story for the 3rd time in 5 minutes, I realize that I probably shouldn’t be writing this, though I need the money. What should I write about? The comparison between China’s Government and our own? No, that has already been done, with little success. I want something that will stay in the minds of the public for a long time. Something which I can be proud of, knowing that while I will receive lots of money for it, it is because of its content, making people want to read it over, and over, to glean one more clue to unlock the full meaning of the ending. And perhaps, the body is what makes people want to read it, again, and again.

Maybe I should let my mind drift, to wander that which others call “daydreaming”. Why can’t I let myself wander and ponder whatever hypothetical situations that I choose? What if I could undo that? Or, what if I had bought that present? I saw a movie once, called “Sliding Doors”, and it was like what most people go through, in their heads. All she does is miss her train, and the movie follows what happens when she misses the train, and when she doesn’t. By catching the train, she eventually dies in an accident. So, one could wonder if, by anything happening differently that they will die in a horrific accident, and not of old age.

Letting such morbid thoughts sink into me for while, I realize what I can write about. Me. While everything else has been done, my auto-biography hasn’t, and the way I tell my story will set me apart from others like it. I can’t relate to people what an emotion is like, but I can give clues so that it can evoke the emotion from a reader’s personal experience. I can also tell people what I felt like at a certain time in my life, what lead up to a certain scenario and to speculate on what could have happened if things were different. I’ll show people what I can do, how I think, and open a window so the breeze of inquiring curiosity comes floating through my home, inspecting all that I have for show, maybe even hinting at the deep and dark secrets that I may have.

Inspired, I start my process anew, marveling in awe about how easy all this is. How quickly the story comes together when you have a fresh angle. All the starting doubts disappear, and I can write what I want. What I want to be out of the shelves, fresh and free of dust, to go to a good home which will cherish and pass on my book or books for generations to come. The prospect of being somebody in this cruel world where you are nothing without little pieces of black and white paper and composure to take anything without breaking down. Where the best jobs are the ones where we confine ourselves to small blocks of land in absurdly tall buildings, so tall that washing the shiny glass panes is a momentous task.

It’s funny. We pay others to work, by taking away their freedom for 38 hours in a week, to work at our whim and to produce a product that will generate revenue. I work, but when I take a break, remembering the bird, flapping around, I see that it is gone.