moving on its own.

moving on its own.

Why wasn’t my life working? What would it take to get it to work? Why could I not find happiness in relationships? Was the Chemical Technology BSc experience of adequate money going to elude me forever? Finally—and most emphatically—What had I done to deserve a life of such continuing struggle?

To my surprise, as I scribbled out the last of my bitter, unanswerable questions and prepared to toss my pen aside, my hand remained poised over the paper, as if held there by some invisible force. Abruptly, the pen began  I had no idea what I was about to write, but an idea seemed to be coming, so I decided to flow with it. Out came...

Do you really want an answer to all these questions, or are you just venting?

 

I blinked... and then my mind came up the pavilia baywith a reply. I wrote that down, too.

Both. I’m venting, sure, but if these questions have answers, I’d sure as hell like to hear them!

You are “sure as hell”. . .about a lot of things. But wouldn’t it be nice to be “sure as Heaven”?

And I wrote:

What is that supposed to mean?

 Before I knew it, I had begun a conversation.. .and I was not writing so much as taking dictation.

That dictation went on for three years, and at the time, I had no idea where it was going. The answers to the questions I was putting on paper never came to me until the question was completely written and I’d put my own thoughts away. Often the answers came faster than I could write, and I found myself scribbling to keep up. When I became confused, or lost the feeling that the words were coming from somewhere else apartment rental, I put the pen down and walked away from the dialogue until I again felt inspired—sorry, that’s the only word which truly fits—to return to the yellow legal pad and start transcribing again.