With that fleeting fancy passing, he begins his second stint at putting his life down in print. He transfers what's wildly written on paper onto his computer. All his earned, learned and yearned years of life, rife with strife come alive on his computer. Every morning he awakes with the next ten or so pages in his mind written the night before. He writes like a man possessed and he is. He's reliving every moment of his life through writ, bit by bit, and it's wild. Each experience is pushed through the keys on the keyboard. As it passes through him it feels like it's happening now. Smells and scenes of days gone by are so lucid in his mind. He feels physical reactions when writing them down. His memory now is like a snowball rolling down a snow-covered hill recanting every minute detail of his life. He uses coffee as a stimulant. It helps while writing every moment, memory and feeling he has, at every given point in his already lived life. He's amazed how the memory stores absolutely everything, including the five, no make it six senses of every living moment of his life. Timothy in Greek means honouring God. He always envisions God as all knowing and all seeing and here he is realizing that truth. His whole life no matter how tried and tested it's been, has been seen. It's been recorded with every single detail. Not just the experiences themselves; but every thought, every forethought and afterthought. All his words well from being. He records every notion and emotion that arises. Every pain, every pleasure, everything that can be imagined. It's all there stored in his mind, his heart, his soul. Even every sense has some kind of receptor that stores all his life's energy. Every nuance and circumstance unfurls in swirls upon remembrance. It's like his brain retains the remains of whatever, whenever, however. He's sure somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind his passing through the birth canal is registered. The whole experience is magnificent. A beautiful possession. Surely artists must feel this when inspired. He is an artist. He's experiencing what many in the field of creativity feel just maybe a little more than most. He's so possessed he presumes he's to be a proud Pulitzer Prize winner. For months he's self-absorbed in the truest and purest way possible. Fuelled by coffee, tobacco, and the momentum of what he's already written, he continues to vent until he's spent. He then transfers his entire existence electronically from his computer, onto paper by way of his prehistoric printer. When he prints out all he's written he's stupefied to see the storyline literally has a line drawn, as in dashed if not gashed through each word, of each sentence, of each page. More than 98,000 words of an abridged attempt at documenting his life is ruined. When he tries to read what's printed out he suffers vertigo or something. It's hard to decipher or make out what's written with an unwanted line drawn through his life. It's as if it was done deliberately to cross it all out. Perhaps the universe has no plans at present for his life to be in print. It sure seems so. "A Memoir - A Trilogy" Part I: If You Could Change One Thing Part II: Bind Nothing Part III: Closure