If he's told me once, he's told me a million times that he wasn't much of a poet, much less a writer. I'd say that, too, if that's all that the people I loved the most ever told me. If all I heard from my family and loved ones was that I couldn't do what I want, that I'd be a complete failure, that I didn't work hard enough and I didn't have the brains/ambition/skills to be successful, I'd say I wasn't much of a writer, much less a poet -- but that equates to a difference in perception.
But last night, he had pangs of guilt when asked to take a break and leisure with me. He couldn't put his work down.
He said a week ago that several ideas had been rolling around his head. I visualized one of those Labyrinth wooden puzzles that required a person tilting a plane to get a ball through a maze while avoiding treacherous holes. From start to finish, the ball was ruled by gravity, and if you could avoid the pitfalls and hardships, the you would roll to the finish and fall in place.
Things are falling into place. He told me last night that one of his coworkers knew of a house that was going to be up for rent soon. We're leaving for Santa Fe tomorrow. We're going to do all the things we always wanted to do ... together.
Amazing what a little inspiration can do.
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