I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.