person holding white ceramci be happy painted mug

I’ve written entries almost every day for the past week or so. Yet they languish in Drafts. Some are half written, left hanging due to a child screaming for more juice, or a husband who has asked something or other.

Drafts. Something akin to blog purgatory, where one sits waiting to be processed. Like those books found in the “The Library of the Unwritten” by A.J. Hackwith (review to follow), they once were stories that were meant to be shared with the world — or maybe not.

Some days, I find myself thinking why I should still bother to write. Yet, in the middle of a busy cafe or on the road under the pouring rain, the stories still come. About the child who stood in the middle of the road soaked in the rain, with foul stagnant water past her ankles, begging for a few hundred riels, or the guy who sits on the top floor of the building nearby, topless day in and day out. Or perhaps the story of the little girl who asked rolled on the floor of the store in front of the bank, because her parents would not buy a chocolate bar. The parents’ reactions are priceless.

So while I sort through the muddle of stories in my mind, they rest in Drafts waiting for a time to come into fruition.

Meanwhile, we carry on.

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