Scribbles On a Page By My Bedside

     "You know Dad, I can only watch the first quarter with you today.  I'm going to a writers' thing later."

     "Yeah. Your mom told me about that.  What are you doing with all this writing?" My father asked.

     I didn't have the courage to tell him. Or I don't have the answers. Either way I shrugged my shoulders and we both went back to watching the football game.

     I guess I'm really not sure what I'm doing with all this writing. I'm uncertain myself. I'm feeling like this is the direction I should go. Even though I really don't know where I'm headed.
     A clear vision would indeed be helpful. "Imagine," all the experts say- "Imagine what you want."

>I want my scribbles on a page by my bedside to mean something one day.
>I want my story, my novel, my poems or whatever I write to speak to someone about an experience they had or a person they knew.
>I want to feel purpose more and know all my random thoughts have an important mystery to tell.
>I don't want to worry about money or feel too tired to do the things I enjoy.
>I don't want to get to the end of my rope and wish I'd swung with more reckless abandon.
>I want to live.
>I want to give.
>I want to share.
>I want to dialogue with other people who love life and think deeply about significant concepts.
>I want to engage in culture and appreciate all kinds of art.
>I want to take care of my mind and my body so when I'm old- really old- I know my choices haven't hurt my frail exterior. And if it had- I want to know my interior life will be so rich it won't matter.
>I want to live and breathe all I can experience. Enjoy every second because life goes too fast and

I        B  E  L  I  E  V  E       I       H  A  V  E       P  U  R  P  O  S  E.