Sure Cure for Insomnia

I can't sleep...as usual. I find one thought leads to another thought, which in turn leads to a party. In my head. It is not a party I wish to attend but here I am. I have a sticker on my car that says, "I'm not anti-social. I'm pro-solitude." While this is true much of the time, I am really a very social person. Not much to show for it though. All this thinking about thoughts and people led me to this thought: What makes a true friend? Someone you spend time with? Someone who will call you or text you out of the blue but not seem unexpected? More likely, someone you can trust in a foxhole. Most people don't spend much time in foxholes, I realize. It is someone you can trust with your life. I don't know how many people I know that fit that description. One at least to be sure. Everyone needs that one person. I guess not too many people would think I would be relied on for that either, even though I have told them that I was trained to kill. Okay, I usually...

This is the beginning. Beginning of what I do not yet know. Only afterwards are things labeled, so now I am just nothing but a beginning. I am possibly reckless, maybe too cautious. That, too, is hard to say. When I know, it may be too late. Forgive me for my uncertainty. I am not even sure where things started. Maybe I am not really a beginning, but just have a bad memory. I feel as if I was just born. I am looking around at my surroundings and nothing seems familiar. It is as if life itself started right here. Where should I go? My next step may be my last. Who can tell? If this ends well, I have fate to thank. My journey will go where it will, like a river that flows to the sea. Life follows a similar path, as does a good story. It should seem as if the tale fell into being suddenly, but has been around forever. It is rough being a beginning. You have no act to follow and nothing to compare yourself to. How did God do it? How wonderful it is to see what can become o...

This question most likely haunts many writers, especially those who have never had anything published. I am one of them. So, how do you know, really? I have pondered this question more times than I'd care to admit. I also don't tell people that I am a writer very often. Why? Because I fear others will not see me as one because I have no "proof". "Proof," I usually think, is profiting from my work. This definition is a tricky one, however, because profit may not come in the form of income. I fear ridicule by others who sense that if I was really a writer, I would have found a way to make a living from it by this time of my life. I haven't exactly tried though, but still have the desire to one day dip my big toe out there and wade out where the sharks live. I know, sounds cowardly, but I am happy most days just writing, creating, believing that one day someone will pay to read what I have to say. For now, I am practicing my craft, I'm learning, stretch...