The ancient Sanskrit legends speak of a destined love, a karmic connection between souls that are fated to meet and collide and enrapture one another. The legends say that the loved one is instantly recognised because she's loved in every gesture, every expression of thought, every movement, every sound, and every mood that prays in her eyes. The legends say that we know her by her wings - the wings that only we can see - and because wanting her kills every other desire of love.
The same legends also carry warnings that such fated love may, sometimes, be the possession and the obsession of one, and only one, of the two souls twinned by destiny. But wisdom, in one sense, is the opposite of love. Love survives in us precisely because it isn't wise.
You know how sometimes you look through your pockets and find maybe twenty bucks or something? I found a screenplay this morning in some stuff I was looking through. Forgot all about it. Have put all rough notes for last novel into a digital first draft. Still working on script about a homeless Asian woman. Kim. I have never read over my stuff and gone, wow is that ever good. Except in this case. The pacing and the dialogue in this Kim script is quite good.
I had some sad interactions with a woman here in Whistler when I first arrived. She is an amateur photographer. She has completely lost her life to drug addiction. I asked what she was doing to get her stuff out there. She said she wasn't ready to take that step. I couldn't relate at first. Now I can. I no longer intend to pursue anything other than the creative process. The quality seems to be improving.