The Road Less Traveled

(Have I ever mentioned that's one of my favorite poems ever? I may not read much poetry, but something about what you first found beautiful seems to stick with you the rest of your life.)

I suck at keeping up with these things. *sigh*

At any rate, my blogging is taking a different direction again. One of the classes recommended to me by advisers was Form/Technique of Fiction, hereafter known as CRW. It's basically a craft honing class. Interesting stuff. If you're a writer. So I find myself in the interesting predicament of having to become a writer. It's surprisingly fun; I didn't think I'd like it this much.

Here goes nothing. Our very first exercise in class was to write about something we would never do. Maybe something we would never choose to do, something we hope we would never do, something we could never do.

All she'll ever have is a white stone and a hole in the ground. She'll never know how to dance, how to argue, how to be her own person. She was so lovely, so perfect.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Our one chance, my one chance. Wasn't supposed to get sick, wasn't supposed to slip away. Supposed to grow up. Be beautiful. Be successful. Grow old. Bury us.
And instead of bringing us together, she's tearing us apart. Maybe I shouldn't spend my days keeping vigil. Maybe I do know what's passed is gone. But I can't help it. I can't help waking up hearing her crying for attention.
It's time to let go, I think. I'll never speak her name again. Just the thought of her sears my heart. If I can stop myself saying her name, I might be able to look normal again. I'm going to walk away from this place now. I'm not coming back until I'm carried through the gates. I can do this. One in front of the other. Going, going, going.