A world is out there, a real world, an abysmal world. There's more people than you can count.
What's the worse thing that could happen?
I am invisible. I am silence. I am a whirl of color and mood, unfelt.
No, the worse thing is the mirror cracks and the laughter dies and no one knows it happened.
There's worse things than that. Much worse.
It always comes down to that. A baby dies. A child is lost. A refugee is left behind, in the water. All are cracked mirrors, with laughter a grey ash at the bottom of a well, and no one sees, or hears, or feels.
Except on the news.
A novice writer finds the place inside where the mirror is clean, laughter bursting out of the warm loaf of your belly, and the world knows you.
Listen. Nothing worse can happen. The sound of apocalypse is gone. You can write and press the orange word Publish...and see, you are swinging from the vine with the monkeys, up over the giraffes and past the elephants trumpeting across the wide, wise savannah.
