As adults we get to watch our creativity die as we age. For some people they are able to relearn their creativity once they realize life isn’t as serious as we once thought. The joy of finding once more that passion for imagination, for creativity and fantasy. The reason so many people love Harry Potter is because it reminded us that magic and the fantasy world are still ok to believe in. We can release ourselves from the concerns of everyday life for a couple hours to remember what it was like to be a kid again.
I love fantasy books. I don’t combine fantasy and science fiction, they are very separate genres to me. I enjoy a fantasy writer that can write great imagery like Robert Jordan could. Many people thought he was long winded, but like Tolkien I think as long as a writer is adding to the mental picture there are never wasted words. I enjoy certain authors so much in fact that I reread their books over and over hundreds of times. I don’t branch out much and I get great replay value out of things, especially books and movies that are so good they take me away for a little while.
I wonder if I am the only one that rereads books over and over. And not just one book that I am obsessive about. I have books by Jordan, Griffin, Feist, and a scattering of other authors that I recycle through. Some books over a thousand times. Might be a disease. I always knew I was a little off.
How bitter sweet a moment is when other moments must watch it sail away. They wave in farewell, they wave in longing to be chosen.
We live for moments. Memorable moments are what make memories and memories are what let us know we lived. The good and the bad, the past itself is us. Since I don’t believe I will get a second run at this I try to remember the moments. That is hard for me. I am the most impatient person on this planet. It causes me stress and irritation, possible flashes of anger and all that I blame on my Korean genetics.
A thousand lights so bright. How they twinkle in the sky. Are they rising dreams, or slowly burning realizations that dreams don’t come true. I hear a whistle from the East. A sign of something to come? A path away from something best forgotten. They shine the way so clear and so far. If I could but take the first step. A step I will dream of tonight.
I ponder upon a careless thought and that results in a simple action. A need to feel that perfect moment, when moments end for another before me. It beckons me towards an emotion. Not a state of sadness or even a state of happiness. I know it’s name. Satisfaction wears a satisfied frown as I remember the dagger’s thrust. The cold feel of steel leaves a memory real, as real as the warmth of life flowing over my wrist. I flick the blade just so and clean it of it’s deed. A memory won and from what was done… a simple murder.
Jason C. Cushman