I tried to write a story yesterday. I did so again today, and a week ago and a year ago, ….

Is not easy, is it? You might be all about getting to a certain scene but then blank, what now. Is like you open a box of assorted chocolates only to pick out one and leave the rest behind. What about the beginning? Is just a stepping stone to a future you run to get to, without turning the page back. Speed reading the pages in rush of excitement, to fast a roller-coaster of emotions, until you realize you reached the final page. Do you read the book again, go to another story or… you never finish the page? You stop wanting to know, or you try to make it an open ending.

Is not easy to find a starting point to the story when you only think how to end it and the chapters feel like a dream from a background character’s view.

Where is it? Where is the story I wanted to write? I had it yesterday, and a week ago, and a year ago… is always gone… is simply lost for found.

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The best memories are always lost for found when you need them.