If I couldn't write anymore, I imagine I would find myself among the tallest trees in the forest, whose lives, like my own, have almost completed the circle of life gifted to them. Together, we could share stories like how many seasons we have lived, how many storms we have braved, and whether anybody will hear us when we fall to the ground.
If I can't write anymore, does it mean I have nothing more to say, or did the words go to sleep, and the quiet takes over until my entire world finally rests after decades of late-night thoughts and early-morning coffee? Will I still remember the circus and the oceans of the world? Will I see the faces of those I love in my dreams and feel the warmth of a child's hug?
If I can't write anymore, how will I express all the beauty and wonders of life that fill my every waking hour, and how will I know when my last sentence will be written? Will I just know, close my laptop, and walk away? I know that day is not that distant, but I do know it's not today.
I still have words to write, stories to tell, and the endless hope I've touched those who get lost in my world of words.
Mike 2025
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