Reflections of an Average Writer

By Andrew R. Duckworth

It seems sometimes
That I have more journals
Lying around
Than I have written words,
A conundrum to be sure.
How will I ever fill them?
My story is simple,
Too simple to fill volumes.
And, sure, there’s the argument
Thirty-five is not a full life.
But I won’t pretend to know
What tomorrow brings.
Perhaps it brings adventure,
Perhaps it brings chaos.
Either way, I have journals to fill,
Some collecting dust,
Some having collected dust for years,
Right next to a neglected Bible
With scribblings and notes
From when I was questioning
Everything.
They wait adventure.
They wait my direction
To a film that may never
Play out.
Our lives are not like the movies.
Heroes rarely live to see
The finished product.
Protagonists grasp for the grand
But come up short with the average.
And if my life
Is nothing but the average,
I will be grateful
For the time.
For now, I will write.
I will write my story,
One of past adventure
Touched up by a flair
Of whimsical and daring,
One of conquering dragons,
Of climbing high mountains,
And lying down in the wildflowers
Of a restful valley-
Journals for tomorrow.