He could no longer dance. His fingers wouldn’t trip across the keys to producing magic the way they had in his youth. It was more work now. He had to think; to grind out each idea to ensure it came across.
It wasn’t better or worse – it just was, the new way of his world. He understood things slowed over time. It was inevitable. In younger days he had tried to fight it, but he hated losing. He’d figured out a few tweaks to make himself more viable as the years fell away. Staying able was at the forefront of his mind.
His mind still raced. New ideas, new thoughts – more mature now – still caromed around the inside of his head. He didn’t worry about time. What was supposed to come out would come out. His endurance was front of mind. With all the distractions in his world – both of his own making and from without – he wondered if he’d find the focus required to sit long enough to finish. It was a real concern.
Laughter surrounded him. What was serious anymore? The chaos and the noise of the world. It felt like precious few believed in the power of the story. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe they didn’t understand. Today everything was so clipped, so mindless, in such a hurry. It seemed no one recognized how much impact a handful of words formed into a story could have.
It made him question his efforts; why he continued to try. He felt the tug of distraction – even at his age. The whole system was wired for ease, but he still fought against it to do the hard thing; to try to capture the world in words.
The questions were his biggest distraction. He kept coming back to the one: is this all worth it?
He still read. And it was in his reading that he found his answer. Each time a story made tears well in his eyes, or made him ache at the humanity of its characters, or understand the world anew, he knew it was worth it.
He’d go back to his keys and begin the slow two-step that was now his form of creation.
