I sat at my computer today with the intention of writing a short story. I found myself distracted with other projects, those side gigs that allow the water and lights to stay on and food to fill my pantry, so I am not left eating noodles and eggs more days of the week than I’d like. As the projects filled the many hours that passed, writing filled my mind. Even as I yearned to put pen to paper, I wondered, why do I write? Why do I bother to spend time creating worlds if within my world there is always a theft of my time by other more pressing needs? The theft feels like an unwelcome intrusion into matters I feel are more important, such as writing. But in the end, will anyone care? I suppose as long as I care, that is all that matters. What can be more important than creation? Imagining worlds within worlds is a far better use of my time. But this culture is not built for that, I suppose, at least not in the space in time I occupy. So I find moments like these, moments that allow me to write my peace. In the grand scheme of it all, it may not mean much to the world, but it means everything to me. My short story will be written. I will become a thief, stealing back my stolen time, so that I may write something worth reading, something that will run deep, something that will settle the souls of the ancestors who clamor for me to share not only that which I can imagine, but that which they imagine through me. My words are their dreams come true.