A Writer Writes About

On a day in May…

A writer writes
Where he’s been
Where he is

Where he’s going

All while void of coherence
Forgetting his past
Unsure of his present
Fearful of his future

Then as the success bell tolls

He’s congratulated

He relates stories of his past

Enjoys his present

And sells many books predicting everyone’s future

Still, perhaps not his own

Then on a day, as yet not fully lived

Sanguineness somehow prevails

And only to himself he reveals:

“Never have I been more touched by life than today.

For special reasons which will forever be unclaimed,

Yet so deeply felt.

Understanding, perhaps not a possibility.

Reasons for what transpires don’t find themselves getting in the way of the most unimaginable emotions beyond previously experienced recall.”

A message saying one’s breath is far more important than its description. This is the moment for the writing to stop. This becomes a new time to capture new meanings, for quiet to resound within.

A writer listens intently though without prescription,

And just maybe an American pioneer was heard to say:

“Begin now!

Start the rest of your life

With this first day,

And each day thereafter

Serving as the canvas for your own

Personal masterpiece.

Each day is your audition for the next!”

hk