Its seems to me that bikers share more than just fun, speed and recklessness. That is to say, to ride a motorcycle is one thing, to *be a biker *is quite another. Biking is more than just a mode of transport in ways I haven’t yet quite put my finger on. It’s a way of life to a degree. Whether or not a particular life outlook gives you a desire to ride, or whether it is more that being a rider leads to a changed life outlook is nuts and bolts.

Multitasking is overrated. “The word priority… was singular…the very first or prior thing…. Only in the 1900s did we pluralize the term… Illogically, we reasoned that by changing the word we could bend reality. Somehow we would now be able to have multiple “first” things.” — McKeown, Essentialism Either: do several things simultaneously to an average standard, or do a single thing with excellence. I’d choose excellence every time.1 The thing is — that choice is yours to make.

Nobody is normal. At its heart the idea of normal is a farcical concept, but a thousand times more so when applied to people. Everyone is different, there is no ‘average person’. Even if one takes normal to mean ‘mentally stable’ it remains ridiculous. Nobody is 100% stable 100% of the time. In fact, it appears that people in general are less and less stable, more and more often (or maybe its just finally getting talked about more).

4am is a magical time. Where the late-nighters have mostly drifted off to bed, and the early-risers haven’t well…risen. It’s simultaneously eerie and relaxing in a most odd sort of way. Hearing birdcalls echo across a graveyard silence in a usually hectic city center is an…experience. The occasional twitters should feel out of place in the concrete jungle, normally masked by human noise as they are. They do not. Sitting there, watching the sky gradually lighten and listening to the calls is magical because you feel isolated.

I believe I wrote a few Scribblings ago about my observed law of good chasing bad and vica versa. This idea tends to taint good times since I am expecting something bad around every corner. Always a few clouds in the sky as it were. I don’t hate it, though. It makes me better prepared for the inevitably of when those clouds roll across the sun. The storm always hits in the end.

My blind mind’s eye pretty effectively neuters my memory. Because I can’t recall the image of a situation, I often can’t recall it at all. Forgetting where I put things is the rule, not the exception, for me. Cruel joke of the gods, that. Give a man who’s greatest fear is loss a memory that deprecates rapidly. Moments come and go. Memories mostly go. It is the way of things, and there isn’t a great deal I can do about it.

There are two paths to immortality. Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. — Benjamin FranklinWhich will you choose? I admit to cheating a little. Life’s unfair, after all, so why should we be fair back? I choose both. I will do. I will do crazy things, just because I can. Better to ask ‘why not?’ than ‘why?’. And I will strive to touch the lives of others, in the most positive way that I can.

Crimson. Lips beckoning you into a kiss. The flame of passion. Electric blue. The roar of a blowtorch, the crackle and snap of lightning sparks. The flame of drive. Clear. Open air, shimmering on a hot summers day. The flame of spirit. White. A melded rainbow, colours fused together into searing snow. The flame of hope. Yellow. Gilt leaf wrought defiant on crisp white page, glowing against. The flame of optimism.

Every writer is different. Not just in their particular turn of phrase. Not just in their writing style, though that is often the difference most apparent. Writers are different because writing is different. Writing flows from experience, it is intrinsically personal. Everyone writes differently. Maybe you plan, maybe the words just stream from you without thinking. Maybe you edit obsessively. Or maybe you do the barest of checks before tossing the piece into the wild.

And so we stand. Astride the years. For this day and this day alone. The time between two days is the time between two years. New Year’s Eve is special because it signals a divide. Between past and present, between present and future. It is also associated with death of the old and birth anew. If there is any time for reflection, it is now. Look forward, look back. Stand astride the years and look each way.

My best writing goes unpublished. Some is written down physically, and sent away. Some is locked away. Consigned to eternal draft hell. Some is published under an anonymous pen name. Reading that work back occasionally feels as if it was written by someone else. Written by the Frenetic Scribbler within me. The Bleeding Writer within me. It’s my best work and yet I take no pride in it. Because my best is also my worst.