Death.

The life of a writer is often a lonely one. No one quite understands where your mind wonders or why. It's hard to tell others, because the ideas that go through your head are quiet often grandiose and frankly insane. The ones you want to listen are the ones who shy away, and the ones who are open are the ones your not sure you want to tell. My mind wanders and broods today, and I came to a crossroad in my story telling that I'm not sure if I want to explore. The character in my adventure story that I tease here is a part of me, the young minded boy who wants nothing more than to achieve his dream. He takes the steps necessary to achieve that dream and is taken in a direction he didn't foresee. Through him I take upon my biggest challenge: stay the course, strive, achieve, in the face of scrutiny and personal guilt. I may want to give him more than that, to tackle my biggest fear, death. I am desperately afraid of dying, to fizzle out before I'm able to accomplish the things I want to. The anxiety of sands running through the neck; unseen through the opaque exterior of our hourglass. Would I kill this portrayal of myself? All the things I have had planned for him, the grand journey. People would never experience it, nor would they know what they are missing. Such is the fashion of death. I always frowned upon resurrection in stories. There is no coming back from death. It's permanent, if the reader doesn't fear death, there is no consequence for the characters. Any sense of adventure becomes null. Some resurrections are tasteful; like Harry's in "The Deathly Hallows". They way it was handled didn't cheapen mortality but instead gave it more purpose. Just like actual life, we'll see it where this story takes me.