L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.
While my friend Nicole reads my first draft, I am writing short stories. Some real, most imagined, one a combination of the two. I find that of all my passions, and my regular readers know I have more than a few, writing makes me feel most fulfilled. Even when I reread the hours worth of words I've sacrificed sleep to create, only to delete them all, I am never disappointed in myself for having done so. Inspiration rarely alludes me, especially when crafting a short story. I tend to collect them in my mind and recall them later like half remembered conversations with old friends. I simply have to fill in the details.
Sometimes a story finds me, inadvertently and unexpectedly, in a gesture as simple as a handshake or a stranger's glance. In these instances I practically fall over myself and anyone in the way to get home and write the story I've created around them. The strands of thought seem to appear from nowhere, yet they feel as if they have always been a part of me, and like the cobwebs I can't reach on my foyer chandelier, they will remain. Glittering in the shifting light of day, these fragile connections remind me to look always within my heart for that which is invisible to my eyes.
On a completely different note, I have dreamt, vividly, in French for the past few nights. Problem is, I don't speak French (other than a few phrases). Apparently I understand it in my dreams though. How random is that? Maybe I need to stop perusing so many Canadian knitting blogs before bed. My subconscious self is exponentially more interesting than my waking self and that, my friends, is just sad. I wonder what Foucault would have to say about this phenomenon? I'm going to sleep on that thought and I'll give you his theory in the morning.