I once wondered what it would take to make me a good candidate. A candidate for what you might ask (as I cringe at the Plato-ic stylings of my writing right now) and I would be forced to answer - a candidate to play in the field of life.
But faux deepness aside.
Imagine a dream in which you find yourself stranded on a single strip of land that runs for as far as you can see both in front and behind you. On one side are the calm waters of your favorite childhood lake (complete with orange guppies and the one corner of the lake with a patch of high grass somehow (magically) floating and thriving strictly on the water). On the other if your favorite childhood sea (the kind that took you under its wave, flipped you inside and out and made you lose a bathing suit but that you still ran for eagerly every time your parents finished parking the car and inflating your floaties).
An interesting excercise is not to judge a book by its cover but attempt to describe its plot line based entirely on the title. In some instances, like Oscar Wao's, it's easy to make something up. In other, like Suite Francaise or Relativistic Physics the problem gets exciting. The excercise is akin to the idea of coming up with a story for random strangers in the waiting room of a bus terminal.
My mind is a cat chasing the light from a flashlight, trying to untangle the tangled mess I've made of the ball of string without the benefit of opposable thumbs.
But I'm running.
not physically, dear god, never that.
But I am and I hope to tell you what it feels like.
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