I’m a guy standing at the edge of a puddle.

I’m afraid to step in.

The puddle is, by puddle standards, relatively shallow. Large, wide, maybe a little murky, with strands of oily colours coiling by the sides. But shallow.

There is an urge to leap right in, for that satisfying splash. To kick the water and show ‘em who’s boss. To say, “Who’s in deep water now, huh?”

But I don’t want to dirty the shoes. I don’t like the idea of jumping into untested waters. I’m afraid of wetting the hem of my trousers, knowing that the soaked fabric would cling to my leg, reminding me of the dirtiness of the water, constantly stinging me with cold, haunting me with discomfort…

I take a step back, where I know it’s dry. Boringly so. Safely so.

I need to walk ahead.

I can easily sidestep the puddle. Make one great leap and pray I clear the water. Find a piece of something somewhere, and use it as a makeshift bridge. Or I can wait for the puddle to dry. I’m in no hurry, and the day is warm.

But you know what they say about puddles. Actually, you don’t. Because there’s nothing about puddles there is to be said. They’re just that; shallow waters to step into, or step over. They can be fun, they can be uncomfortable. They’re both things.

They are many things. But, in the end, they’re puddles, and you decide if you’ll walk in or not.

I need to walk ahead.

I think I’ll just walk. Puddle or not. Wet, dry, fun or discomfort… well, they’re just one of those things.

And well, there’re many more puddles ahead.

****

Make sense of what you might. I couldn’t. I was simply writing up an excuse from drafting this bit of website copywriting, which isn’t happening. It could be the heat. Or simply a brain on atrophy.

Whatever it is, I think I’m glad I wrote this. Because, well, it meant that I’m writing. Sorta.

Heh.

****

The truth is, I’m walking ahead because I remember;

Some time ago someone went off to fulfil her dream.

She walked on a foreign land, learned new things and saw great wonders.

She faced the world, braced the winds, and smiled and cried and stayed walking.

One flower against the world.

One flower who held my hand. Taught me to walk onwards, and giving me the strength to.

And now it's Two. 

Cold tables do not invite neighbours.

You don’t want them to come.

Dug up some old written works, in a folder marked Written Works in the external HDD.  One of the stories I’ve written, which belongs to the group of stories I’ve written without meaning, without plot, without much semblance of anything else – usually started from a random phrase or word from the dictionary, and left to flow and form and become – as they all become – total crackpot of stories, started out with this.

Think I miss writing stories like those. I’d be tempted to try sometimes, but the words don’t flow and form anymore. It’s like the river has met the lake, and everything about rapids and torrents and salmons are forgotten.

Anyway, I want it back. I want it back very much. So much that I think I’ll just start blogging on a whim because the feeling is here. Maybe I could listen to these whims more often.

The problem with whims are, however, is that they can end rapidly. As it’s doing now.

I suppose I’ll head to bed now. And figure out this interview for tomorrow morning.

Before that:

Goodnight, people.