Gravity

So, it’s getting back down to the storytelling wire, and I’m rebuilding Forge and the Empire from the ground up. (solar system out. Through time and back) I have to thank Malcolm for putting me in a position to recognize how much I love worldbuilding. For a while, it was like an addiction between us. Even if we had nothing else to talk about, we could share the places we were creating with each other. There’s a certain pain now, not having that back and forth. For a moment, I thought it would be too hard to rebuild — too painful — but as I reset the foundations of this universe, I find my soul growing lighter. I’m having fun. There’s a picture in my mind, a feeling about what I want, and while I can’t always express or even visualize what it is, as I get closer, I’m overcome with the sheer thrill of creation.  My characters and stories give me a window into the world. And my world gives me a window into my characters.

I realize this whole mess has given me a new perspective on my life. I skirted death, dodged an axe I didn’t even realize was falling. And in doing so, I’ve been given a new chance. Another chance to prove to others what they mean to me. Another chance to achieve my dreams. I’ve always lived with a sort of "life is short, do your most and best attitude" that comes from planning my funeral when I was fifteen (thank you Steven Covey). But no number of motivational books can brace you for facing the possibility of a slow wasting death. No matter how slight my chances of having HIV were, September 11th, 2006, that possibility was real to me. I sat in front of my computer screen, arms wrapped around my legs, tears running down my face, and asked myself, what if? Not my usual "what if George Bush is right, and invading Iraq was the only way to keep our world from being taken over by an alien spider race", or "what if we can live forever by having our brains flash frozen at the point of death and then implanted into a clone body when the technology and law catches up to chop shop immortality?".

You can argue you face death every time you get on an airplane, or drive a car and talk on a cell phone at the same time. And you’d be right. Life is a constant act of facing death. Consideirng the number of precautions I took in having safe sex, chances were higher I’d have been killed by the mold in my house than HIV. But reality is perception. And my perception was shifted by the experience. Maybe a part of it was the synchronisity of dates: it was the five year anniversary of 9/11, whatever the reason, I’m still carrying a piece of that "but for the grace of God" feeling. I’ve been given another chance at being alive. You don’t appreciate something until it’s threatened. You should, but you don’t. Or maybe you do, but not enough.

I’m happy to be creating again. I’d hate to waste my second chance. Or my third one. Or my three thousandth chance to make my life better. To achieve something great. Or at least good. My greatest fear, I think, is that I’m wasting my life. I think that’s what keeps me flitting from activity to activity, trying to find the thing to do that best suits my talents and abilities. I think, though, eventually you have to sit down and just decide. Decide what you want. What you are willing to do to achieve it. And what you are willing to accept to make it happen. And you have to make at least one person happy every day. Do something small that is good, that makes the world a better place. Because you may not have time to achieve your large dreams. So you have to do small things too, while working towards the large things. Because time could be short. The mold could be infecting you, right now, hidden in the walls, breaking you down without you even knowing it.

So today, I petted a kitten. I worked on a story. I spoke to a friend. And I added a few bricks to the rebuilding of my world.