I keep having dreams at night about spending a year in the woods. In my dream, I'm living in a tiny cabin. A bed, a chair with a desk, a word burning stove, a small bathroom and because, for the purposes of fulfilling the actual dream, I'm assuming some electricity to charge my computer and to light my simple, humble abode.
In the dream I have a handful of items. Soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, some towels, a few changes of clothes, utensils, a frying pan, a small fridge stocked with eggs, veggies and a small pantry filled with beans, rice and those instant mashed potatoes. Of course, I have my laptop and a few bottles of whiskey and wine. In the dream, I never run out of these staples and occasionally I have a visitor who brings me supplies and maybe stays the night. Nothing lewd in this dream, just an occasional companion, to make sure I don't turn into that dickhead from Into the Wild.
I spend days wandering through the woods, setting my chair down by the river, washing clothes, dipping my toes and such. In the winter, I look for logs for the fire and look in wonder at the various footprints that were set before me. At night, after a nibble and a drink or two, I would sit down and write. Not like this, so often mindless blog, but something substantial. A novel or a screenplay. It's been a dream of mine for years, but the more I think about it, the more I procrastinate. I am filled with self doubt when it comes to writing. Are the thoughts and dreams in my head as exciting as they appear to me or are they just a poor attempt at comedy, horror or drama? I have plenty ideas, with some of the story's endings already vivid in my head. The winter would end, the spring would begin and I'd leave the cabin with something I could be proud of. Something the world would want. I have all of it finished in my mind. I have all of it finished in my dreams. I just don't have the beginning in either.
In the dream I have a handful of items. Soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, some towels, a few changes of clothes, utensils, a frying pan, a small fridge stocked with eggs, veggies and a small pantry filled with beans, rice and those instant mashed potatoes. Of course, I have my laptop and a few bottles of whiskey and wine. In the dream, I never run out of these staples and occasionally I have a visitor who brings me supplies and maybe stays the night. Nothing lewd in this dream, just an occasional companion, to make sure I don't turn into that dickhead from Into the Wild.
I spend days wandering through the woods, setting my chair down by the river, washing clothes, dipping my toes and such. In the winter, I look for logs for the fire and look in wonder at the various footprints that were set before me. At night, after a nibble and a drink or two, I would sit down and write. Not like this, so often mindless blog, but something substantial. A novel or a screenplay. It's been a dream of mine for years, but the more I think about it, the more I procrastinate. I am filled with self doubt when it comes to writing. Are the thoughts and dreams in my head as exciting as they appear to me or are they just a poor attempt at comedy, horror or drama? I have plenty ideas, with some of the story's endings already vivid in my head. The winter would end, the spring would begin and I'd leave the cabin with something I could be proud of. Something the world would want. I have all of it finished in my mind. I have all of it finished in my dreams. I just don't have the beginning in either.
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