A World Of Possibilities

I'm sitting in the lab, curled up on a spinning office chair, laptop squeezed onto the desk in front of the dusty desktop computer provided for my writing. I love my laptop. My laptop has feelings, memories. The contraption on the desk is a monstrosity of unfamiliar keys and cords. I have a preference for the simplicity of a compact screen, a universe of wealth stored on a folding keyboard. 

All around me I hear the familiar, soothing sound of keyboards clacking. It's honestly one of the most relaxing sounds on earth. When the sound of keys drowns out the sounds of life I know that all around me life is being formed. Worlds are being designed, personalities created and recreated, universes discovered. The infinite majesty of fact and fiction, all converging in the mind of a single person, only to flow outward onto a blank page where it can live forever. 

When I write, I return to a world all my own. I know this world well. It's the world that constantly swirls through my mind, drawing on everything I've ever learned or known and spinning it into a silken web of inspiration. Each idea is connected in some way to the others, and a subtle change in one sends a tremor down the line to each other, slowly evolving each idea to perfection. Some days I can only see this world, soaring through the dark reaches of my mind like a meteor through space. Other days it comes hurtling down to Earth and I can reach out and touch it, harvesting its fruit. 

But that isn't enough. The fruit has to be refined, the pit removed and the seeds scattered to sow more ideas. Sometimes other fruits have to make their way into the mix. I have to learn to craft recipes from the fledgling ideas that make their way from the recesses of my brain to the forefront of my mind. Often days will go by and my fingers won't put forth a single fragment of speech. Like all great art, writing cannot be rushed.

So I sit here with others like me, a room full of master craftsmen of the written word. They are my greatest allies even though I don't know many of their names. We are conspirators, a network of those who have had a glimpse of another world and wish to bend it to our will. We trade secrets, pass along ideas, build each other up as well as tear each other down. Sometimes, when one of us thinks we've built up a perfect tower of words, another architect will pull out the cornerstone and tell us that it's lopsided. The tower falls down, but we are not discouraged. Instead we begin to rebuild, pressing on to greater glory and splendor. 

In this way we reflect the great Creator, the one who tears us down to build us up. We love to write because the Word is our strength. We hope to see our words take flesh, but none will ever do so as perfectly and as beautifully as the Word itself. That Word took what was a broken, collapsing tower and tore it apart, giving it a fresh start and a chance at even greater majesty. 

There's a sound from outside my mind's workshop. Instantly I feel the gravity of our world take hold and I ascend rapidly from the depths of my universe. The spell is broken for a moment. I glance around, my co-conspirators still lost in their creations. I have to return to my work. I breathe deeply, place my hands on the keyboard and take the plunge. 

My song for today: Babel by Mumford and Sons. We build our towers and our Creator tears them down, but in our desolation there is hope. His Word is good. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWza_On7ajs

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.