For as long as I can remember I have wanted to write. Just to put the inner world down on an outer medium accessible to the world. I enjoy the reaction from the recreation.
But I have not known the joy as abundantly as I had when I was younger. She will not save me from my joylessness. I am speaking of the “pen.” She will only observe my melancholy, inadequate and inanimate. I will lay her down on half-filled drafts and she will rest, her eyes dull toward slumber. I can’t enable her and she can’t help me.
Inside me are thoughts darting about like squirting children. They are loose and unfixed. They bound from the meadow to the field, from the topsy to the turvy. I follow them and lose them and find them, but always wonder about them; what shadows do they come from? They are not playing with me, and I know this, because I’ve been here before, long ago, and often begun here, and I was once young here. You have only to breathe, deep inside where the lungs aren’t the force you awake, to find your legs suddenly beside me, moving quicker and better.
I’m asleep now. Someday, I may not be.
