Worry. Like a barbecue.

I worry quite a lot of late.

Mostly that I no longer have the time to be what I should be.

My talent's too dim to be the next bright thing.

I'm much too old to die too young.

But, but, but...

If I don't fan the embers to a blaze, I'm guaranteed descent to ash grey grave.

If I don't try.

I risk a spark short burn that no-one sees but me, but surely that blaze has to be.

Surely.

Surely it does.

And I might as well burn as bright as I can; I'll be going out in the end anyway.

And if no-one sees, so what?

What will be lost?

And who notices ash anyway?

I'll have been true to my source; I'll have reached my pinnacle.

Others will burn brighter. Others will be hotter.

But they're not me.

And they may have been brighter yet; their true potential may have been denied.

Mine will not have been. I will have been the best I can.

So I'll have won. I think.

Time to fetch that fan.

(And who knew I could still write like a 14 year old?)

All Aboard The Skylark

Life, eh?

Just when you think there's a chink in the clouds, it turns out to be a tornado.

Nothing to be done except go with it. 

Resistance isn't only futile, it's fatal.

Better blown off course than blown to bits.

Or so it's been said. Mostly by me, so not sure that it counts, but there you go.

I used to write 20 plus press releases, various reports and maybe 5 reviews a day. 

Every day.

For 20 years. 

One thing I learned doing it is that - for me - writing has become like breathing. 

Not that it's essential for life (though it might be) more that once I start to think about it, it gets stupid hard. 

Try it. Think about every breath you take. Really think. Control each inhaled breath. Hold and contemplate each exhalation. Gets a bit bloody weird, doesn't it?

But, once you take away the thinking, it works just fine. All by itself. Even when you dream.

That's how I am with writing - leave it to itself and it just works. And I think it's the way I find out who I am and where I'm going.

But I've been gradually and progressively suffocating words with thought.

Which key to hit first? 

Where to go? 

How to finish? 

What if it's nonsense?

Enough.

Time to give up the tyranny of control and let the words go where they will; they know the way.

So here we go folks. All aboard the Skylark. I have no idea where we're going. Could be a bumpy ride and we might well end up in a ditch.

But fuck it, at least it'll be a different ditch.

And it might be nicer.