I have composed a number of blog posts in the last few days. You will never see them, though, because they were not written down. What happens to unwritten blog posts is the same as what happens to unwritten poems and stories: they hang around and you breathe in the essence of them and then they evaporate, dissipate, do whatever it is that smoke does when it goes. And then they go to a place that we will call Limbo. I like Jack Kerouac's notion that only first drafts are preserved in heaven. But words that do not make it to first draft must also surely go somewhere, and Limbo is the very place for them, for they have been conceived but are not yet born. I will come face to face with them, I have no doubt, when I have shuffled of this mortal coil and am on my way to meet Saint Peter face to face at the gates of heaven. It pains me to have to say this to you Signs, he will say, but there are a few matters outstanding for you to attend to before we can even begin to consider your application. I will know at once that he is referring to the unwritten stories, poems, blog posts, words that are waiting for me to give them form and substance.
But Saint Peter, I will say with outstretched palms, I have done my best, I just got tired.
That's as may be, he'll reply, but rules is rules, and it's more than my job's worth etc. etc. (you can imagine the rest).
Dear Reader, pray for my immortal soul, now and at the hour of the blog post's conception, that I do not lay up a pile of trouble for myself in the hereafter.
(and Saint Peter, if you are listening: two poems in one week - and I mean words on paper - has got to be worth a few gold stars).