Oh, Sandy

My characters fight across the pages. They upend years of dissatisfaction and regret on the other's vulnerable skin and they watch the acid eat away until all that remains of a love is blood and tears. My fingers fly across the keyboard for it, there is something there. But the minute things calm down and the actual story supposedly begins, my mind grows dull. I trudge and struggle across the vast landscape of the White Page, and for every anguished line, I think is this really what I'm meant to be doing? But there isn't an answer to such a question. The stakes are too high.

I know we need to talk about it, she says over beers on a quiet night, but I just don't dare to ask him. It was not the life they had promised each other, but you've always got something to lose, if you gamble.

Perhaps we all live our lives afraid of the answers. It is easy enough to live without question. It is easy enough to live like what if.