Member-only story
Being Present
The morning begins with a mug of black coffee at my desk in front of the window overlooking the street, a quiet thoroughfare of dog walkers, joggers, bicyclists, and a few cars navigating the potholes. I click the Pandora Radio Play Arrow, open my Journal, and type the date in bold, 24 font on a blank line.
Hopping on the Writer’s Path, strobed by flashing lights blinking Stay Hidden, I instinctively look for hiding places: a shadowy corner, under a table, behind a door, or simply donning a mask, more like a hologram filter that a face mask. Reporter rushes in for the scoop on Being Banned and Why? Journalist races to the FrontLine, seeking Underlying Narratives, something deeper than tabloid dirt.
A crumbling, empty room appears on my right, and I hurry past, reluctant to entertain my fear of lack and reflections of not having enough. I stop at the Greedy Bar to guzzle some cheap drinks as if that would fulfill my dreams, only to stumble back to the Writer’s Path, telling myself if Hemingway could do it, so can I.
I desperately longed for a companion to drink with and talk craft. A lone violin spoke from a shadowed alleyway, unlocking Lonely Vibes weary of being blocked. Tempted to follow Depressed Drive into an attractive cul-de-sac, I pulled on the reins and kept to the Main Path, the most direct route to Character Discovery.
