It’s a slightly grey, slightly rainy Saturday afternoon, here. I’m just barely awake, since I got about three hours of sleep last night, and most of that, I was dreaming about staring at the ceiling. It’s a good ceiling… flat and white with three long cracks. All said and done, I’m glad it’s my ceiling. Morning came way too fast.
There’s a nice assortment of things to keep me up, right now. My writing seems to be the thing that clears my mind enough that I can get to sleep. Yup. That’s right. My writing is putting me to sleep.
I’m not sleeping.
I’m thinking about old friends, and debating the pros and cons of contacting them. I was thinking about that before, too. I ran into a really nifty video of a friend from grade school, in which he’s wearing the most incredibly convincing grown-up costume you’ve ever seen in your life, and doing… Well, more or less exactly what I would have envisioned him doing, even back then.
But then, the questions would start, and I’m not really ready to answer questions. NO, I did not name the vacuum cleaner after you. No, honestly… I did NOT name the vacuum cleaner after you. And he’d ask about my sister. Because he’s that far back, that long ago, that he couldn’t not ask. There’s something about telling him that… well, just… something. I don’t know.
And then, the standard question I always wind up against, when I’m thinking of contacting someone from the past… what would they think of my writing? I usually don’t know the answer, but in this particular case… I’m fairly sure he’d love it. He might not completely get the writing as a career path (and by the way, I have my doubts, myself from time to time), but the writing itself would be right up his alley. And I’d love to get his opinion on it. After all, he’s been reading sci-fi forever.
Also, I might buy him a throw pillow, or something. It would make the room in that video look less beige. Actually, he’s the one with the lucrative career path. I might make him buy himself a throw pillow. Or… Two.