Elongated Ideas Fall Drifting

The Writer sits in a futuristic chair looking out vaulted windows looking over the valley where the sun has been dropping out of the icy sky for the last hour

Elongated Ideas Fall Drifting

She is in a new university building worth millions of dollars It is a feat of engineering, or seems that way. She is a writer.

What does she know?

Not much right now, she sighs to herself.

She even a writer when she doesn’t know how to write the piece she thinks she knows she wants to write.

The sun keeps moving as her fingers rest statically on the keyboard.

At one point, she thinks about pulling her pen and notebook out of her bag. Maybe it would do her good to tap into the tactile experience of writing. It would shake things up and loosen the words, right?

But, like her immobile fingers, she sits and stares.

The horizon darks, and her sigh feels heavier.

The notebook never makes an appearance.

As the last of the light dips over the mountain range, something stirs. The plastic of the keys begins to click, palely imitating the sharp clack of the old-school typewriter. The Writer smiles, thanking the heavens that she doesn't have to deal with one of those. Despite the romantic aesthetic, those things are a pain. They are heavy, ink from the ribbons gets everywhere, the paper is never aligned right, and they are so loud you feel bad writing at night in a studio apartment with thin walls.

By the time the sky is dark, she finds words on the page.

Do they mean anything?

They mean so much.

At least to her. Maybe not to anyone else.

But that is the mindf***.

The Writer will never know if the words have value if she does not let them go. But what if these are not the right words in the right combination? What if she could do better?

What if she causes harm? Pain?

The Writer spins into more empty questions.

Why has she felt compelled to write these words instead of other words? Why are they in the order they are?

Would she write about something different if she was listening to some EDM or classical piano instead of 2000s indies that got her through so many moments in her past?

Should she have had coffee instead of chai?

Or were these words destined to reach the page at this time?

The dark valley street lights and headlights breaking the void of nothing makes the Writer pause.

Maybe she would have gotten to this moment no matter what.

But the moment is not about the words. The Writer's work is more about expression powered by emotion, penned with Hopeful mindfulness.

Composed a million different ways, with a million different words, listening to different rhythms, powered by different beverages, and inspired by various experiences, the soul of the composition is found in intangibles far beyond the words making up the sentences making up the paragraph, which make up the body.

F***.

Why is the main section of a composition called a body?

That is kinda creepy….

It is also beautiful, maybe?

Before going further, she decides it's a question for another day.

Slowly closing the laptop, the Writer lets her breath go sending gratitude to her Hope, Joy, and Muse for the grace and fertility of creation.