The brightness of the sky hit my eyes. I had the urge to run off and get an umbrella to shade me, but I was in a place of great comfort.
It was the weekend and I was lying supine in a shallow river, partially submerged up to my ears. A few feet away, the river was churning. There was a slight dip in the river bed, creating small rapids of water. But where I was, it was sedate.
Heavenward, a wall of leaden clouds was creeping across the sky. Rain seemed imminent. I was inspired to take a picture of this, but the thought of journeying past the rapids on slippery and lumpy rocks to get my camera deterred me. It was painful enough to reach where I was, the soles of my feet were still throbbing. With the desire to boast of this beautiful afternoon quenched, I remained where I was, committing the scene to memory. Mother and other relatives were further downriver. Dad and uncle had disappeared around a bend just upriver. They were hunting for gold.
So in the water I made my bed, gazing at the sky, thinking of nothing and everything. Few things crossed my mind then. The current has a way of letting unwanted thoughts drift away, or at least, silencing them. If I didn’t mind the sunburn, I would do this more often.
I have no purpose in telling the story above. I needed to do a bit of descriptive writing, one I haven’t done in a while, at least with a word count longer than 144 characters.
I am at a stage in my life where immediate people and work have become tolerable.
I have found a job where I do not feel compelled to flee from, despite having considered it before. I have found a reason to stay in home state. With more commitments in my life, I am hoping to return to one that has kept me sane so far in my adulthood. Writing.
Oiling the writing gears inside my noggin with saturation of everything that inspires me in writing would be a return to the phase of contemplative silence. This I am willing to do. But being too silent is, to me a frightening experience. Demons of insecurity still haunt me. It is a sad fact in life that for some writers, or aspiring writers, depression follows not too far behind. And if their tarry too long in contemplation, it would catch up and overwhelm them.
I will not linger in the shadows in the process.
You cannot be a good writer of serious fiction if you are not depressed ~ Kurt Vonnegut