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 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:
Start the rest of your life
With this first day,
And each day thereafter
Serving as the canvas for your own
Each day is your audition for the next!”